


* ~ The End ~ *

by Der_Katze



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Character Study, Christmas, Future Fic, Gen, How Supernatural (TV) Could End, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Non-Canonical Character Death, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, References to A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, References to Dickens, Songfic, The End of the Winchester Gospel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:48:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21836851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Der_Katze/pseuds/Der_Katze
Summary: A not so christmassy Carol inspired by Dickens.Christmas 2023.After yet another apocalyptic event, Dean is alone, battling a feeling of all-encompassing futility, when he is visited by three mysterious ghosts, that take him on a tour through his past, present and future.What is the last scene in the Winchester Gospel gonna be?(Translation of my German version. All in all 20.000 words.)
Kudos: 6





	1. Then: The Soldier

*

Spoiler-Warning for all seasons / Canon divergence after Season 14

Time-Stamp: Christmas 2023!  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Song: The Soldier Song by K’s Choice

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XOBO4aUNDt0>

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4s378Q0N3Tw> \- live  
  


Lyrics: <https://genius.com/Sarah-bettens-the-soldier-song-lyrics>  
  


**Chapter one**

**Then - The Soldier**

_Mother, I'm fine. Everything's okay._

Whitefish, Montana - December 22nd, 2023

He's not angry anymore. For a few months now, the all-consuming anger has gotten more and more misty, evaporated. A few embers are still glowing in him, but the worst part seems to be over after almost a year, has made room for something even worse. The emptiness hurts more than the anger.

He had barreled across the country like a loose canon, forcing Baby to tear into the black asphalt of highways and the gravel of dusty backroads, always looking for a neck for the shiny blade of his machete, a good old bar fight, an insignificant fuck in the back seat. The Impala being his only companion in misery since Sammy’s and Mum's ...

When Mary died the second time, it was worse. Again she offered herself for Sam, but this time her sacrifice did not save Sam.

He didn't notice the fading of his anger, the only life force left in him, until one of the three bikers had him in a headlock in this dirty dive in Wyoming.

He hadn't gotten to his gun in time and slowly but surely the lack of oxygen made him black out. Almost gratefully he had heard the sheriff storm the bar, whilst he scrambled to his knees, choking and gasping.

After that, his senseless road trip had a destination: Rufus' old hut in Montana. It has been here half a year since he came to Whitefish, living some miles away from the small village in the middle of the forest.

Right now he is chopping wood outside for a winter that doesn't seem to come. Wretched sunshine. As if nothing had happened.

He likes the silence. Sometimes, early in the morning, when the chirping and chattering of the birds releases him out of a night, in which he has rolled around more in bed than really slept, he sometimes dozes away with infinitely heavy, tired limbs, surrenders to the illusion that the earth is a good place and his life has always consisted of birds chirping and forest huts. 

Since he's been here, he's had much fewer blackouts and hardly any loveless hook-ups, which may be due to the limited selection in the village that reminds him of an old trapper station. As if time just stopped there.

After steering Baby almost into the ditch after a night of drinking in the local bar, he now only drives under the mandatory speed limit and splits a bottle of whisky for a whole week. The morning trembling is almost no longer noticeable.

Only the nightmares have stayed with him.

But there are moments when a prayer presses itself from his inside onto his lips. Not the formal ones, but the ones that are like cries for help, peppered with wild swear words. He can no longer count how often he used "son of a bitch" and "Cas" in one sentence.

The angel - his angel - has not answered since ... this one day. It hurts to know what happened to Sam and Mum, but at least he knows. He hopes for both of them that this was now their real and irreversible death. The one that stops everything and after which there is just... Hopefully not "nothing", there had been too much Nothing, just simply ...The End.

But sometimes a picture fills his head: the other three Winchesters are all sitting in a house in Lawrence, Kansas, for Sunday breakfast. He doesn't hope they're in heaven, but he wonders if they would miss him at the kitchen table.

_And i don't know why i should be_

_The lucky one who gets to see_

_Another morning through these tired eyes_

But where Cas is, if he was at all, he hasn't found out in all these months.

He often talks to him, tells him what he's doing (little!) and how he's doing (okay ...), sometimes a gallantly humorous anecdote from hunting life (Remember when we were hunting the Cartoon villain ...) 

He can't share that with anyone else because the people here in Whitefish don't know who he is and he doesn't meet anybody else.

Sometimes he hears Cas' dark, monotonous voice answer: "Dean, that's not funny." And sometimes he even sees the confused face of his angel in front of him, saying: "Maybe it makes more sense in Enochian". And then Dean laughs briefly and then everything comes back to him and he reaches for the bottle.

_Mother, I lied  
_

_This is not for me_

_I've seen so many people die  
_

_And somehow i'm still here ..._

Why did it spare him of all people? After all he did. After all, in spite of the absolute catastrophes that were also his fault, he saved humanity several times. He should have earned his peace by then, shouldn't he?

But Armageddon simply swept him aside like an insignificant pawn on the chessboard during the decisive battle.

"Ooooooooh, poor Dean-o!" His inner demons sometimes take on the voice of his enemies - or his friends. "Did Armageddon hurt your poor ego, you superhero?"

"Shut the fuck up, Gabe!" A bird flutters up next to him in the bushes. Apparently he said it out loud. It sounded so dry, as if he wasn't here anymore and it frightened him. He reaches for the axe again.

Gabriel's voice is replaced by Castiels'. "What's going on, Dean?" Damn feathers! Why did they just leave him here? In his fantasy, Castiel pierces him with a thoughtful look from far too blue eyes. "You think you're not worth saving?!"

He pulls out and lets the axe drive into the log with unnecessarily strong force behind the strike, because right now he wants the anger back, the raging fire that kept him busy all the months after the defeat. The rage had definitely been better than the lethargy that now accompanies him through every day like his own shadow, heavy as an iron ball around his ankle. 

The chopped wood flies to the side in a high arc, one just past the rear window of the Impala. He hasn't opened the trunk for a long time. It looks like a grave to him. But also reinsurance.

The best thing he will do today is another 20-mile hike. After that he is mostly tired enough to sleep - without nightmares, which are his most regular visitors here in the desert. 

Garth once passed by. And although he really likes Garth, his attempts to bring him back into the hunter's life had only led him to see more clearly what he had lost.

Here in Whitefish just everything is going its mundane day-to-day business. Maybe out there, too, but he just doesn’t care anymore.

Dean puts the next log on the wooden block, wishing it would finally snow. There are only two days left until Christmas and the sun is burning from the sky. He wipes the sweet off his brow and peels out of his plaid shirt and scowls at the dirty, former white undershirt. He should go into town soon to pick up supplies and visit the laundry.

The sun is burning on his bare arms. He hates the sun rays. His plan to move to Montana, deep into the forest, not to have to see them anymore backfired. And if God was still out there somewhere he was probably laughing at his monkey efforts. 

With his Winchester luck, this very spot surely is cursed, because one of these backwoods tourism managers in Whitefish pays homage to some pagan god promising them eternal sunshine.

With verve, he smashes the axe into the chopping block and takes a sip of his beer. After all, it is still nice and cool out here in the sun, but it still leaves him unsatisfied and the well-known pull sets in. It's no help against his insomnia, but he will follow the call tonight nevertheless until he finds or looses himself at the bottom of the bottle ... 

_Mother i'm dying_

_Nothing more to give_

_My body breathes but i don't want to live_

It must have helped, though, because when he wakes up in the middle of the night, he feels the worn out cushions of the sofa in his back instead of the mattress of his bed.

The next moment it hits him in the stomach like a baseball bat. Something is wrong. Even though he is no longer a hunter, his instincts are still there after four decades of training and active hunting - honed and sharpened by John Winchester himself.

He remains calm and opens his eyes only minimally. Fortunately the fire is still burning and so he can make out a figure in the bright glow standing with their back to him in the middle of the room. Something about them shines red, but the rest is transparent. Fuck!

He automatically reaches for something made of iron, but only finds a spoon to which some can chili from his dinner is still stuck. 

Slowly the apparition turns to him.

"What`s up, Bitch?" It hurts. Both to see her and the singular. "Does look more messy than christmassy here."

"I'm Jerk, if you can't remember. And I don't care about Christmas." Dean sits up and rubs his hand over his eyes, leaving them there. A dream, it's just a dream.

"You're okay, Dean? You look like you've seen a ghost!" 

Shaking his head, Dean drops his hand. "Something like that. Are you haunting me in my dreams to give me Christmas decorating tips?"

Charlie grins this slightly ironic grin that he loves her so much for - loved her. "I just wanted to tell you a really cool story about the weird protective beings that..." Charlie stumbles over the empty whisky bottle on the floor and raises an eyebrow reproachfully. "But it doesn't matter, for you it's a dream - your dream."

Shit. Ghost Charlie can read minds. Sucks that he does not even have the direction rights to his own dreams. 

Thoughtfully, Charlie is checking him out, weighing her head back and forth. He can read it on her face before she says it. "You can't go on like this, Dean!"

He sinks back into the couch. "I know, Charlie! I know. It's gotten better already..."

The transparent figure sits down next to him on the sofa, but he can actually feel how the cushions dip under Charlie's nd somehow it's beautiful because she looks like Charlie, but ... at the same time there is something very wrong here.

She stretches her slightly whitish hand in his direction. "Come. I must show you something, but - I don't want to lie to you - it won't be easy."

When was my life ever easy?

As much as he would like to fulfill Charlie's wish, he doesn't trust the apparition. "Would you like some tea?" He tries to sound like an attentive host. "No, thank you. I don't need any ... Food. Of course I could still have a drink, because it has something to do with cosiness. But ... No, thank you."

Dean tries to conjure up a normal smile on his face, as if everything were quite normal. In his old world it was - and a warning.

"O-okay. But I'll get a beer from the fridge, if you don't mind." - "Okay."

He has to distract her somehow. "And? What is it like as ... What are you exactly?" – “Even with your knowledge, you wouldn’t really understand. Let’s just say, I’m something like ... a ghost." He hears the grin in Charlie's answer and grabs the salt inconspicuously.

A rain of white crystals pours over Charlie. Dean expects a flickering or a transformation, but Charlie looks at him only slightly amused.

"Nice try, Dean." She shakes herself a little and the salt trickles to the ground without having another effect. "Apart from the fact that it doesn't help at all - no silver, no holy water, etc. - we don't have time. As I said: something like a ghost and now come."

Dean opens his beer quickly, then carefully takes Charlie's transparent hand. It feels firmer than he expected, pleasantly soft and warm - his first "human" contact since - forever. A satisfied humming escapes him. It feels really good.

In the next moment everything around him blurs, as if "The Flash" would push a child carousel. "What the hell ...?"

"Sorry!" Charlie looks at him with that little crease between her eyebrows and that apologetic smile that says she's going to pretend everything's all right, but there's really a problem. "It's kind of deep magic, but somehow they haven't managed to fix all the bugs in the system yet."

"System???? What kind of sy...?" Then he gets uncontrollably sick. Everything around him is a vortex of colors, only Charlie stands quietly in front of him in the middle of this rainbow hurricane. "Woah! The rotation transports his stomach contents towards a spectacular reappearance, but shortly before that the vortex like whirlwind stops all at once and he stumbles clumsily against Charlie. 

He raises his hand defensively against the dazzling light. "Don't worry, Dean." He swallows several times and then takes a long sip of his beer. "Suddenly I'd rather you hadn't said that. What ... what are you planning to do with me?

Charlie looks at him calmingly from below. "Well, when I was ... my primary school teacher introduced a German tradition to us in the classroom. She had it from her mother, who had fled Germany from the Nazis. It is called the "Advent Calendar". On the calendar there were 24 little doors and for every day from the 1st to the 24th of December we were allowed to open one."

She puts a hand on his shoulder and it feels so comforting that he is ready to follow her everywhere. "It's time for you to open your doors, Dean!"

_You'll be so proud to know_

_I was strong_

_I didn't let you down_

Charlie steps behind him and from the bright light a cemetery with faded grass materializes in front of Dean. He recognizes it immediately. Stull Cemetery. One of the many, many places he never wanted to see again in his life.

He’s on the ground, something hard in his back. Metal. Black paint. Baby. It's all exactly the same as it has been then, only he's sitting there twice. His younger self moans, blood runs over his face, swollen almost beyond recognition.

In front of them stands Sam. A hurrican like force is whirling everything up around them. It's so damn real that he raises an arm in front of his face to protect himself from the wild gusts. Behind his brother a huge black hole yawns in the earth.

From the corner of his eye Dean perceives a movement. "Sam! It’s not gonna end." Adam. No! That's Michael! "Step back.” – “You have to make me.” His stubborn little brother.

“I have to fight my brother, Sam!"

Dean would love to close his eyes. It's all so pointless. He already knows how it will end. And yet he can't look away from Sam and Adam - Lucifer and Michael.

"Here and now! It’s my destiny." Adams/Michael's voice fades into the background and he just hears him as if from far away. His focus is completely on Sam - Sammy's face burns itself into his retina. The exact moment his helpless look changes into a determined nod and Dean realizes that there's really no turning back.

His brother closes his eyes, spreads his arms wide as if he wants to fly and then – Sam lets himself fall backwards. For a moment he seems to float in the air as if he is suspended on a cross, then suddenly there is Michael jumping at him, grabbing his arms.

For several heartbeats it's not clear in which direction the precarious balance of the two will tilt. Everything runs like slow motion in front of Dean. Then Sam pulls – and falls. And with him Michael.

Or is it Adam? The young man looks so scared as his brothers tumble into that black hole just right in front of him and he is not lifting a finger to save them. He looks at his beaten up younger self, who is just sitting there next to him, shell-shocked. He can remember the feeling of complete emptiness. This is one of the worst moments in his live – just right next to his mum burning on the ceiling.

He is so in the moment, that he has to remind himself, that Sam actually got back. But – Adam …

_And the bullet that's supposed to go_

_Inside some poor son's back i hope_

_It blows up in my face_

All of a sudden he's sure. Dean can hardly imagine that this is Michael, God's blunt little instrument. So, that's Adam in front of him. His scared, young half-brother is going to hell.

They never really bothered to free him. No matter how jealous he was of him, whom he barely met, it was also his fault that Adam got caught between the front lines.

Dean feels the extra guilt like an iron clamp around his chest. He drops forward towards the fast closing hole. He's not even sure what he's up to, whether he wants to save them or throw himself into it. 

But he doesn't fall, instead the travel tornado takes his stomach apart and chops it into small pieces.

Again, bright light dazzles him. This time out of countless neon tubes.

_There's nothing left but anger in my soul._

  
_I never found my truth out there_   
_I never knew why we were there_

_I lost my youth but no one seemed to care ...  
_

_*_


	2. Then - The Righteous Man

*

TRIGGER warning: Torture / Gore  
  


  
  


Song: Virgin State of Mind by K’s Choice

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7kNzDk2CPHI>

Lyrics: <https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/kschoice/virginstateofmind.html>

Chapter Two

**Then – The Righteous Man**

_There's a chair in my head on which I used to sit_

_Took a pencil and I wrote the following on it_

Charlie guides him, one hand on his shoulder, into a tiled, clinically white room. On the walls there are metal cabinets on which pointed, sharp instruments lie. Some are new and shiny, others dull and rusty.

In the middle of the large hall, lonely and abandoned, stands a metal frame on which hangs a huge chunk of bloody flesh and muscles. Dean shrugs back in disgust and quickly raises his hand in front of his nose to dampen the stench.

"Where are we?" - "Don't you remember, Dean?" With a cautious gesture, Charlie asks him to step closer, but he doesn't dare. "What is that?" - "Not what, Dean, but who!" 

The crimson gory mess in front of him coughs. Blood splashes in all directions and he takes a step back in horror. Flies swarm up, a dark cloud.

Suddenly he knows where they are. Hell. They are in hell. And it makes sense that Charlie brings him here after Sam jumped into the pit, right? Something like hope is spreading in Dean. He'll see Sam again. Then a cold hand grabs his heart and squishes it - hard so that he can't breathe. Is this...? Is this bloody mess in front of him... Is this Sam? 

Someone enters the room behind him. He's about to turn around and check who, as ... 

"Well, my darling, what does it look like?" 

Dean gets bone pale, freezes in the middle of the turn. The memory of glowing irons, blunt needles and acid is pulling over his skin. And of course Dean didn't remember, didn't really remember, because how can a person... The flashbacks were bad enough... He doesn't want to see this.

"Another round?", snarls the men, the demon behind him. 

_Now there's a key where my wonderful mouth used to be_

_Dig it up, throw it at me_

_Dig it up, throw it at me_

But naturally the course of his steps lead him further into the hospital like arena. He has always been stupid like that, going exactly to the spots, right into the mess, which other people intuitively scare away from. Perhaps he is simply no longer a human being.

That... Thing behind him cries out, hoarse and weak, but so painful that he presses his hands on his ears.

Dean begins to tremble uncontrollably, sweat running down his back and chest. In his head he yells at Charlie. "No. Nononono. Let me go, Charlie. Please. Pleeeease!" But not a word comes over his lips.

Besides, it's not really Charlie, but a fucked up projection of her or his own fucking subconscious that presents him with a "Best of Dean's worst nightmares" in a dream. And they've just reached the absolute top positioning in the charts and it seems that this was even before he ... before he himself ...

He feels Charlie pressing his hand for a moment and although she is so much smaller and daintier, it gives him comfort and strength to confront this scene.

He takes a deep breath and opens the locked door inside - just a crack. Pain, powerlessness and so much brutality that his body screams in agony. Everything wants to squeeze through at once, flooding him and he throws himself against the door, slamming it shut again by force.

Automatically his hand wanders to his right forearm. Sometimes he feels the mark like a glowing throbbing phantom pain. He drops his hand, continues to stand frozen on the spot, when Alastair moves into his field of vision.

In a flash, Dean collapses, crouches on the bare concrete floor in the middle of the red blood streaks, makes himself as small as possible and hopes that Alastair overlooks him. It’s a strange feeling, when his tormentor just runs right through him, as if he is made of thin air. 

Shuddering, Dean groans and looks anxiously up at his old tormentor, but he doesn't even notice him, just being all the more interested in the lump of man that is laid out in front of him, as if this was a particularly exotic, particularly rare insect. Fascinated and proud, Alastair looks at him - almost as if he was valuable.

Alastair thoughtfully runs a circle around the Rack. "I have to say - like father, like son."

Dean crumbles in on himself on the ground. No. Not like the father.

“Ah, come on, Dean. You know all the gimmicks of pain and hurting others. It should be a piece of cake for you. Stop that scowl.” Dean is looking up at the bloody mess in front of him. There is not even a face anymore.

Alastair is whistling. “Well, we’ll see. Every soul is breakable, little fragile things they are. Okay, but now – let’s celebrate. After all it is Christmas! Should we have a little feast? Just you and me? I brought you a little something. Just for fun."

_Like do you think I'm sexy?_

_Do you think I really care!_

Alastair ignites something and a small blue flame becomes visible. A pot with pointed forks. Fondue. Hot fat. 

He gets sick. "Charlie - please - no. Make it stop. I can't ... Nobody can stand that..."

Dean begs, begs like he begged Alastair to stop. He hears Alastair sharpening something, metallic grinding on rusty iron, then everything turns black.

_Got a knife to disengage the voids that I can't bear_

_To cut out words I've got written on my chair_

When he regains consciousness, he hears the cry of children and the ringing of an ice cart. The sun pierces his face. A park. It's summer and Charlie is sitting next to him on A bench in a rose garden.

He carefully observes the scenery and prepares himself for the confrontation that awaits him here. He explores all directions, but there are only scolding mothers, joggers and the people from the parks and gardens department, who water the rose flower beds.

Every now and then the man lets a short jet of water splash towards the children, who stick out their tongues and dance provocatively in front of him. When the fine veil of water hits them, they drift apart screeching, then the game starts all over again.

Slowly Dean relaxes. Castiel appears before his inner eye. Cas sitting on a park bench with a serious face watching the children play.

A small, hard ball bangs Dean on the head. He turns to the Rowdy kids when he hears: "Watch it, Dean!" Dean flinches. That voice.

"No, Charlie. That's not fair. Adam and Sam, that's on me, but I'm not taking responsibility for Bobby's death. For Kevin ... Yes, it was my fault, but Bobby ... That's not fair."

"So you think it's about that?" Charlie smiles at him mildly, but also a little sadly.

A little boy, about eight, Dean estimates, in an oversized, blue hooded sweatshirt, runs towards him and takes the ball out of his hand. "Thank you, sir." - "Hey, sure!" He's rubbing the boy's head, who's giving him a slightly angry "Hey! I'm eight already, mister. You don't do that anymore".

Dean laughs and when the boy walks back, he secretly wipes his eyes. The little one touched him more than he wants to admit to himself. For a few quiet minutes he just watches Bobby and himself as a child throwing a baseball back and forth.

"Why can he see me, Charlie?" - I'm surprised too. Maybe another bug in the system. I don't know."

"Why couldn't the others see us?" With an icy shudder he thinks of Alastair. "That would really mess up the time continuum if, for example, you were suddenly standing twice in the same room." Charlie laughs and shakes her head. "No. They can only see you as an exception, such as if an encounter has no further relevance to your and their story. Whereby - actually everything has relevance. It's a really exciting topic if you take a closer look at it ..."

He only listens halfway, because he wistfully looks at Bobby's face, which always seems slightly grumpy, but with a warm gaze under the worn cap. Dean's child him is throwing back the baseball and Bobby's face relaxes to a smile. "Good throw, Dean!"

"He looks so young." He turns to Charlie, though it is hard to peel his eyes away from the peaceful scene in front of him. "Bobby, I mean. Probably he was as old then as I am now. I never thought about the fact that Bobby was young once."

Charlie smiles at him. "It's funny, these time travels, isn't it? Unfortunately, we have to say goodbye again, Dean." - "Just a moment, Charlie... Please!" 

"I'm sorry, Dean. You have to say goodbye." 

His hand pauses briefly in the air. "See you soon, Bobby!" Dean whispers, then Charlie gently touches his shoulder.

The world disappears again in this wild vortex, which he secretly christened "flea powder tornado", and - No, thanks! - he would never admit that he secretly read all of Sam's Harry Potter books.

They are suddenly standing in the driveway of a small single-family house. The longing hits his heart like a hammer, but over his lips comes a "No. I ... This chapter has been closed a long time ago."

Charlie is silent and looks at Dean with sad eyes. "I know what you're thinking, Dean." - "Oh yeah?" Dean crosses his arms, at the same time arming himself for the next blow.

_Can I burn the mazes I grow?_

_Can I? I don't think so._

"That you always hurt the ones closest to you the most." - "And - so what's not true about that???" He's almost happy that Dream Charlie nods in front of him. "Sure it is. Especially in relation to yourself. I'll give you a tip: you have a very narrow definition or much too broad definition of what you're responsible for." 

Charlie looks at him so expectantly as if he should have a revelation right now and so he just shrugs his shoulders in annoyance. This unsolicited self-discovery trip is really creepy.

In the back of the garden he hears the howling of several male voices. He calculates. Nineteen. He is now - nineteen. But - if he has understood this dream travel concept correctly - then this is the past, meaning he is younger.

Dean would like to take a look at the teenager Ben has become. He would only have to carefully peek around the corner of the house. But maybe he might be visible again. If necessary, he could pose as a parcel messenger with a baseball cap and sunglasses, simply asking Ben how to get to the nearest supermarket.

"We have to go back, Dean." Charlie is still smiling and stretching out his hand. "But Ben ... I haven't seen him yet..."

This time the vortex grabs him before he has really touched Charlie's hand and drops him right in front of the fireplace in Rufus' hut. The logs have hardly burned down in his absence, the fire is still crackling cheerfully.

Dean peers up at the mantelpiece on which half a bottle of Jack Gold, his Christmas present to himself, is waiting to be destroyed by him.

Charlie kneels before him and takes his hand. "One last thing before I go." He swallows the "Stay." that wants to work up its way in his throat. His old friend slides onto the couch next to him. The fire is still ablaze, the hot blaze on his face a welcoming contrast to the bone deep chill the surprise visits have left in him. "That's enough for today, Charlie. Really. If you have to you can haunt me again tomorrow."

"I'm sorry, Dean." Damn it. Charlie is just as stubborn as he is. "I have a job to do and I haven't quite done it yet." She's getting a little closer and her voice seems hypnotic. "Look into the flames."

Images rise from the crackling fire. An endless parade of bodies wrapped in sheets and burning pyres. At first glance everything looks the same, but he knows exactly who is lying under the black linen. Dad. Kevin. And ... 

Charlie.

"Please, stop it. I know I deserve this, but... ." - "I'm sorry, Dean! I really am. Are you ready for the last stop?" - "Another one? You said that here was already the last! And - no. I wasn't ready for any of those "stops" at all."

The pull, the twirl, the blur - it nearly starts to be familiar. A motel room materializes around them. It's dark and he doesn't know what he's doing here until the lightning strikes his guts.

The pouring rain and the flashes of lightning that flash the room in blinding light in short intervals. The red of the curtains is almost the same colour as the bloody footprints on the floor.

Someone steps through the shattered door. He - with his gun drawn.

Dean looks around for Sam, so real is the memory. And indeed. There stands his brother, dripping wet, the revolver at the ready, prepared for the worst. 

"Sam," he yells at past Sam. "Don't go in the bathroom! Don't go ...!" But of course he is invisible again right now and Sam goes anyway. He sees himself hesitantly following Sam towards the bathroom door, hearing himself shout "Charlie? Charlie?"

With a sob, that he doesn't know how it escaped him, he falls into dream Charlie's arms, embracing her firmly. "I am so sorry, Charlie. You have every right to torture me with these nightmares. It was my - and Sam's - fault that you were..."

"Dean Winchester!" Charlie gently pushes him away a bit standing on her toes. Angrily, she stares at him from below. "I love you. But you are an idiot. And an outrageous macho. As if I couldn't make my own decisions." - "But..."

She stretches herself a little and lovingly strokes through his hair. "I would have liked to have had a little bit longer and more fulfilled life. I would have liked to have hunted more and made nerd stuff and had more great women at my side, but I knew what I was getting myself into. Everyone dies. Hunters only earlier."

'Except me', thinks Dean and 'Fucking pity party'. Then he kisses Charlie on the top of her head, lets his face stay in her hair for a moment. The ghost even smells like the real Charlie, a bit like strawberries.

"I don't blame you, Dean. It was my decision." - "I know, Charlie, I know." - "Oh, yeah. Really?" - "Yeah. Really." The last thing he sees of her is a smile, then the world blurs again in this wild vortex, but this time without him.

He is shocked. Bright light in his face. "Charlie!!!" No answer. "Charlie?" His hand is touching the tattered fabric of the red couch. It is day and he is alone again in the hut. Suddenly he feels incredibly lonely.

Outside the sun is shining.

_Where can I run to, where can I hide_

_Who will I turn to now I'm in a virgin state of mind_

_Virgin state of mind_

*


	3. Now - The Dreamer

*

  
Song: Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol – performed by Sam (former: Sarah) Bettens

  
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JW1z8uVTVyc](https://deref-gmx.net/mail/client/KoYF6glfD2I/dereferrer/?redirectUrl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DJW1z8uVTVyc)

  
Lyrics: [https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/snowpatrol/chasingcars.html](https://deref-gmx.net/mail/client/9LqK1l6YJ44/dereferrer/?redirectUrl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.azlyrics.com%2Flyrics%2Fsnowpatrol%2Fchasingcars.html)

Chapter Three

  
**Now - The Dreamer**  


_We'll do it all._   
_Everything. On our own._

_We don't need_   
_anything - or anyone?_

Whitefish, Montana - December 23, 2023

What a fucking night! What a fucking dream! Dreams. Not just one nightmare, no, a whole play full with mostly dead actors. Fucking hell!

Dean rises heavily from the couch, stretches and hears with grim satisfaction how one of his neck vertebrae clicks into place with a loud crack. Nevertheless, he feels as if he has been wrenched. The many, much too realistic, reunions are in his bones like seismic shocks.

Except Bobby! He holds on to this picture, sends the others back into the shadows.

With stiff movements he swings over to the kitchen unit and pours himself an extra strong cowboy coffee. The first hot, bitter swallows shoos the emotional hangover into a corner of his subconscious, in which it lies in wait again with shining eyes.

Yesterday he neglected the 20-mile march he set out on and - Bam! - a night full of nightmares. That's not gonna happen to him again.

With energetic movements he packs enough provisions into one of Rufus' old backpacks - he is not gonna need it anymore being dead like so many others.

Dean closes the hut and steps out into the sunshine. He lifts his face towards the sun and the blue, blue sky, then closes his eyes. The rays penetrate and warm his tired limbs, warm, lively red pulsates behind his eyelids. Maybe the sun is not so bad after all.

He resolutely lifts his rucksack onto his back and steps onto the small path next to the hut that leads down to the river. The forest closes around him like a green cloak.

_Forget what we're told_   
_Before we get too old_   
_Show me a garden that's bursting into life_

Next to him, a squirrel races over the branches, cursing and blustering furiously in his direction. Dean can not not grin. He likes these angry little rodents, even if he never would have let Crowley know. Oh, fuck! He even misses the constantly annoyed King of Hell. What would he give to hear again Crowley's rumbled "Moose and Squirrel" or "Hello Boys!"?

He tries to concentrate on the forest, the needles and roots under his feet, in which the small trail emerges, the evergreen conifers' branches weave into a thicket around him.

Suddenly a moose steps out of the forest and trots leisurely towards him. The huge animal stands exactly in front of the sun, so that at its fur an enlighted fringe forms, the antlers an impressive silhouette against the orange light of the low standing sun.

Dean pauses. He knows, while the moose is approaching, that it won't hurt him, knows it simply with a confidence, which he hasn't felt for a long time.

Half a meter before him the moose pauses on the narrow path. The animal is huge and Dean hardly dares to breathe. With a snort, the moose stretches its head and sniffs at his jacket with its large snout, breathing warmly against his neck, carefully rubbing its soft nostrils against his neck. It is a weird comfort, this gigantic, gentle animal offers him for some moments. Then, with a kind of a last nod, it disappears again into the forest.

_I don't know where_   
_Confused about how as well_   
_Just know that these things will never change for us at all_

The short companionship with the moose escorts him on his hike and he takes it as a good omen. 

He takes the same path as the first time, walks through the valley along the stream to a turnoff that leads up a small mountain. From here you have a good view on the rusty towers of the disused ore mine and the old sawmill of Whitefish.

Everything here is so idyllic and nostalgic that old Dean sometimes pukes. But the new Dean is glad that it is so quiet and serene here.

Once he thought he had found signs of a mysterious monster that attacked cows, but then a "real" hunter killed a rabid wolf and solved the mystery.

He unpacks one of the sandwiches and a bottle of beer, drinks it half in one go. He doesn't admit it to himself, pretends to lack the adrenaline of hunting, that feeling of doing something important, but actually …

_All that I am,_   
_all that I ever was ...  
_

A small chipmunk creeps closer and closer to a large piece of toast that has landed next to him on a stone. Fascinated, Dean watches the little creature as it finally dares to get close enough after several aborted attempts, grabs the far too big piece and, as fast as it can scurrys with the oversized prey over the stones, towards its home, its family.

He loves the view from up there over the ridges of hills trailing of and finally getting lost in the haze on the horizon. In the glow of the bright midday sun he follows the crest for two hours. It's unusually warm for the end of December and finally he takes off his jacket, knots it around his waist and continues in his flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up.

He ignores the long scar on his forearm so intensively that the anger at this damn day and sadness and despair creep into him. His last memory of Cas.

He should not sink into the past again, since when he first undertook such a long hike here, it was not entirely voluntary.

Actually, he could rely on his sense of orientation. John Winchester had more or less beaten it into him. But when he had gone down to the stream, a reflection of light on the water had triggered a particularly nasty flashback.

Cas!

Castiel as he wades with the Leviathans in him into the water reservoir and only his trench coat remains swaying gently on the surface. It was one of his worst flashbacks, so intense that he was there again with flesh, skin and bones. Without further thought he had instinctively ran off blindly.

Three hours later, shortly after sunset, after a long search, he had finally stumbled onto a field path he recognized a little outside Whitefish.

He had wondered if he should just go to the bar there and ask someone to drive him back to the hut. But he didn't like to owe people a favor and he didn't feel like answering their questions. He was already the centre of the village gossip.

And so he had stumbled through the dusky forest for half an hour, until he could finally fall through the door into the hut. At that time the hut had actually felt a bit like home to him for the first time and for the first time since ... since the day he had just slept through a night. Without nightmares.

And that will serve its purpose again today – hopefully.

_If I lay here_   
_If I just lay here_   
_Would you lie with me and just forget the world?_

Up here he really feels like the only survivor of the catastrophe and because of the absence of other people there is no one to blame him. Except himself.

From a boulder, a creek cascades down several steps as a small waterfall. Dean follows the water on a direct path, climbs over steep rocks until the waterfall ends and the stream burbles back into the deep forest. Between cedars and fir trees covered with lichens and mosses, he follows the watercourse, which splashes happily in the sunshine.

When he reaches the edge of the forest, it is already late afternoon. The sun is low in the sky and shines directly onto the range land. Behind an electric fence, a few reddish-brown cows are checking him out. He always has to think of chewing gum when he watches them chew the cud. At the roadside long, dry blades of grass sway back and forth in the light wind.

How can the world look so peaceful and harmless when ...

"Dean."

_I don't quite know,_   
_how to say_   
_how I feel._

What the fuck??? Not even hiking seems to be enough anymore. Maybe he should try trail running. But that wouldn't be so good for his knee. Fucking Armageddon.

The rough, monotonous voice is so clear in his ear. In his head? "Castiel????????" Hope radiates - way too much, far too undisguised - from this word and when has that idea ever worked our for him?

Slowly Dean turns around. In front of his inner eye the man in the trench coat materializes, looking at him seriously and slightly confused, but his gaze warms him from the inside - but there is only the forest.

"Sleep, Dean!" Although Castiel isn't there, it feels exactly like he touched his forehead with his fingers and he is passing out, even before his knees hit the damp forest floor.

When he regains consciousness, it has already become dark. Damn flashbacks. It hadn't been planned that way. His pants are completely soaked on the side he was lying on, but nevertheless he feels refreshed, though his heart is heavy.

_I need your grace_   
_to remind me_   
_to find my own ...  
_

No, he is not crying. Probably it has finally started to rain, maybe that is even snow. The last sun rays are breaking through the branches. He better hurries.  
He pulls out his cell phone. He has been gone for an hour. With the flashlight function on his mobile phone he carefully stumbles his way along the little path.

Half an hour later, he turns around the corner of the hut. It is already so that he only discovers at second glance that another car is parked next to the Impala.

*


	4. Now - Faithful Friends

*  
  


Song: Have yourself a merry little Christmas - performed by Jensen Ackles and Jason Manns

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RkDgiFgI2ms>

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rAU9dVb_8dE> – live

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2mnOYFKsa7I> – 3.08 “A very supernatural christmas” - Rosemary Clooney version

Lyrics: <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Have_Yourself_a_Merry_Little_Christmas>

  
  


  
  


  
  


Chapter Four

**Now – Faithful Friends**

  
  


"Hi Dean," a man says, and the next moment someone rushes out of the darkness towards him.

Why the fuck didn't he pack any weapons? This naive nature idyll has made him careless and stupid, it seems.

The unidentified guy falls into his arms and Dean reconsiders the weapon option. The man is still holding him thight and he should have let go by now, because it's clearly beyond the conventional time of men hugging each other when they're not brothers or foster fathers or hunting buddies in Purgatory. 

A suspicion races loudly through his head and is confirmed. "It's good to see you, Dean." The man beams at him, his teeth shining white in the twilight. "Yes ... I, uh, am happy, too. ... But why are you here, Garth?" - "Well, to see you again and ..." - "And?" Dean asks more sharply than intended when Garth doesn't answer immediately.

"Well, I've got a job." - "Aha." - "Yes. And it would really be very necessary that you come with me." - "What kind of mission?" - "I'm afraid I can't tell you." - "Then unfortunately I can't come with you. "

Dean is on his way to the hut, but suddenly he's sitting in the passenger seat of Garth's broken Ford Ranchero. The exhaust pipes are droning and they drive along a kind of decorated city boulevard. 

"What the hell...?" Dean stares at the façade of a large department store wrapped in sparkling chains of lights like a huge gift. Everything flashes and shines and he would like to wear sunglasses.

Most of the passers-by are loaded up to their chins with bags, they are hardly able to turn their heads towards them as the car bangs out a deafening misfire.

"Mhm. I think I'll let the good piece rest for a while." Garth steers the dented, small pick-up into a gap at the roadside and switches off the engine. "So, let's go," says Garth cheerfully.

"Hopefully you didn't kidnap me from the silence of my hut so that I could help you with your Christmas shopping. Bah, Humbug! Christmas is just a commercial sentimental bullshit show." Garth doesn't hear his grumbling any more, having already climbed halfway out of the car door.

Quickly Dean gets out of the car himself and stands on the sidewalk in the middle of a group of people with booklets in their hands.

" _Have yourself a merry little Christmas ..._ ", they sing. " _Let your heart be light_." Involuntarily, Dean hums along the lines of " _From now on, our troubles will be out of sight_." The Carol Singers continue " _Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore. Faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us once more_."

Dean looks over to Garth, who has his jacket collar folded up against the wind and suddenly he is happy to dream of Garth. Even if this is all hokum.

In front of the singers stands a hat with a sign leaning against it. "For those affected by the epidemic!" is written on it. Unconsciously, he quietly continues to hum along with the song.

"Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow ..." In his wallet, he finds a $10 bill and throws it in the hat. "Thanks, Mister!" Dean nods to the woman irritated.

He wipes his eyes and then shouts over the singing: "Gaaarth!!!" The singers next to him jerks away from him.

"She has seen me, Garth. ... Why could she see me?" He looks at Garth with a side glance and he shrugs his shoulders. "Okay, let's cut the bullshit. You're a ghost like Charlie yesterday, aren't you?"

"Oh. You met Charlie yesterday. That's nice." Garth grins at him with his typical Garth smile.

Nice was not really the word Dean would have chosen to describe his experience. Too many dead people in this dream. And the confrontations ... He had been glad that Charlie had been at his side.

He turns back to Garth. "Well, Mr. Tour Guide, if this is a similar dream to yesterday, why can people see me all of a sudden?" Garth shrugs his shoulders. "Maybe it's because we're in the present."

"What do you mean with present? And does this mean, that yesterday ...“His eyebrows scrunch in confusion and he is about to grap the idea, but then it is gone again.

Garth hasn't noticed his mops and mows. "Besides, the people here don't know you and..." - Yes, yes, I already know. I have no significant influence on their lives." 

Dean pulls his shoulders up against the cold and turns to Garth, who now walks next to him again with a very serious face, by Garth standards. Suddenly he entertains a terrible suspicion. "Garth! Are you ... you are ... dead too?"

"Me? No! I'm fine. A lot to do after ... Armageddon, but I'm glad I can help." Dean's guilty conscience suddenly attacks him with this well-known dark, oppressive feeling on his shoulders and forehead, and so he quickly says: "You said, you have a job for me, but ... I really don't get it. Who gave you the assignment ...?" - "Sorry, Dean. I'm not allowed to tell."

Dean shakes his head and accidentally bumps into a woman in an expensive-looking fur coat. She hisses angrily at him and grabs her bags as if he were about to steal them. He can't really take her seriously, because she wears a reindeer antler as a hairband - but with sparkling stones in the shape of snowflakes. Probably they are genuin diamonds.

The picture is so bizarre and at the same time strangely normal that he suddenly wants to stay here, in this shopping forecourt to hell.

But Garth tugging at his jacket sleeve restlessly and dragging him into a poorly lit, run-down alley, away from the hectic masses with the styled stressed-out faces.

Just one block away, there's nothing more to hear or see from the festive lights and the songs. "u would at least be so kind to answer the question where we are, Garth?" - "Detroit."

Dean shudders. The old "Motor City" hasn't been a good place for him for a long time. "Why Detroit of all places?" - "I want to show you how things are … after the battle." - „As if I don't know that. After all, I was there." - Yes, but ..."

Someone is screaming. It seems to be far away, but still loud. Fear of death pierces through it and the hair in his neck are standing on end. He knows them well, these screams, he has heard them far too often.

"Is that ..." Suddenly Dean's heart beats faster. "Is that the assignment?" Garth has also paused to listen, but the screaming has stopped completely. The silence is not less terrifying. Tensely, he shakes his head and moves on.

Living shadows move in the darkness of the dilapidated and abandoned houses. Broken glass grinds under Dean's boots, then he hears a cough that sounds far too high in a wall niche to his left.

As he takes a closer look, he stares into the dirty face of a little boy. "You got anything to eat, Mister?" The boy coughs again and this time something dark drips out of his mouth.

Dean bends down and flinches back in horror. The dirt is not dirt. In the flicker of a dim emergency light, he spots grey areas that stretch across the boy's forehead and cheek. His right eye is dull as if he is blind.

Dean pulls Garth out of the boy's earshot. "What ... what's going on with him?" - "Nothing has eaten him up." - "Oh. ... Oh, Shit.", escapes Dean in horror, then he quickly lowers his voice again. "Still haven't found a cure?"

"You really haven't had contact with the outside world in a long time, have you?" Dean feels, that Garth doesn't mean it in a bitter way and the rising protest and defiance in him subsides again.

"Some of the rich "Affected" have found some means to slow down the process with all sorts of hocus-pocus and a lot of money. It seems to be possible to live with the „Grey“ to some extent, even if they remain "The Affected", which can be equated with outcasts. But for the people here..."

Garth points to the boy, who tries to follow their conversation with feverish eyes. Embarrassed, Dean buries his hands in his jacket pocket. Something crackles in it. He pulls out a pack of chewing gum, which he always carries around with him, to cover up the alcohol haze in the village, which usually surrounds him like an aura.

He bends down to the boy again and presses the parcel into his hand. "Unfortunately, I don't have anything else.“ He thinks of his backpack with all the food he had carried around through the forest and wishes he could give it to the boy.

"Thank you, Mister." As he lifts a corner of his mouth under the scab to a smile, a bright beam flashes over them and the boy, blinded, lifts a hand stuck in a dirty gauze bandage against the light. Dean estimates that he is not older than five.

A police car drives by and lights up the sidewalks. When it's at level with them, it briefly slows down, but then speeds away.

"Are you all alone here?" The boy nods and exhales a sigh of relief as the red taillights of the police car turn around a corner. "Is there no one to help you?" The boy does not answer and retreats deeper into his temporary hiding place again.

There is a movement next to him as Garth takes something colorful out of his pocket and pulls it over his hand, then bends down to the boy. "Well, my little one! What is your name?“

The boy stares shyly at the sock of which Dean can only see the shine of its button eyes in the dark.

„Timmy ..."

Garth's haggard face fades into a huge smile. "Hi, Timmy! Nice to meet you. I am Mr. ... uh, Dr. Fizzles and I can briefly examine you, if you'd like. Does it hurt anywhere?"

The boy carefully bends towards the sock puppet. "Well, not so much anymore. But up here..." The boy grasps the dark scab covering the entire left half of his face and Dean winces. "I don't feel anything anymore."

"That's good, Timmy. That's very good." - "Really? It wasn't so good with Mum." - „Don't worry." Garth strokes the boy's cheek with Dr. Fizzles, which still looks mostly like unmarred skin.

"It will get better soon. The two guys behind me - that's Dean. He's quite nice, even if he looks so grim." Dean tries to relax his face. "And this one's Garth. So, these two are gonna take you now to a nice, warm place, where some of their friends are waiting to take care of you, okay?

Timmy nods hesitantly at first, then again and Garth lifts the little boy togethet with his stinking blankets up. Dean feels very useless.

After two blocks they reach a large square where several fire barrels burn. Ragged figures warm themselves at the flames. Above a broken street lamp hangs a star of chains of lights. Some of the bulbs are burnt out, others seem to have loose contact. Nevertheless, the lights spreads a little comfort in the darkness.

Above one of the fire barrels hangs a huge pot from which a woman scoops something steaming in bowls held up to her. The queue of waiting people is stretching around the corner of the next block.

Garth tips the garbage out of a broken shopping cart, places Timmy in his blankets in there and pushes him towards the food counter.

Something about the woman seems familiar to Dean, but he needs a moment to place her. A huntress. He wrecks his brain, but there is no concrete memory unfolding itself. Maybe he saw her at the Roadhouse - a million years ago, in another life.

Garth probably has brought him here to remind him of Ellen's and Jo's fate. These dream spirits or whatever they are really have an extremly weird sense of humor.

"The hunters run a soup kitchen here for the "Affected". None of the "Spared" really takes care of them. Instead, the media have jumped onto the terror attack lie and the government prepares for a war with Russia and China."

Dean hardly listens. Thoughtfully, he squints at the crowd in the cold dark on the square. Maybe this is about one of the many people Sam had gathered in the bunker years ago? Somehow he never really got close to them. And he doesn't give much importance to it all now either.

Of course, Garth is purposefully approaching exactly this woman. "That's Sarah." The name seems vaguely familiar to Dean. "One of the people from the Michael universe." With an effort, Dean turns his face into a charming, warm smile. He doesn't know how well he fakes it. He doesn't use it very often anymore.

"This is Dean." The woman's eyes are getting big to top it all off. Whatever. It's only a dream anyway. A terribly realistic one though and he is an expert in the field of nightmares.

"I remember you. You're alive," asks the huntress and Dean looks to the ground, nods his cheeks burning. She seems to misunderstand it, because she says: "It's ... I'm sorry about Mary and Sam. Mary was such a great soldier and a great woman in general. She really saved us back then. And Sam. He welcomed us so warmly, really helped us find meaning in this new world."

Dean continues to nod with his head down. His stupid, big, little brother. Water drips onto the asphalt. Luckily, Sarah now turns to Timmy: "Well, my little one? Would you like some soup?“

„Yes, ma'am!" He hears the radiance in the boy's voice.

After Sarah has scooped soup into a dented tin bowl and handed it to Timmy, she takes Garth aside, but Dean can still understand every word. "You know the kid doesn't have long, right?" Dean pricks up his ears, sees Garth nodding.

Dean has never seen the "Hippie Hunter", as he quietly called him before, so wrecked. But maybe that's also just the new Garth, which he doesn't know very well, since he hasn't dealt with him or the new tasks very much. Or at all. His gaze wanders over the huddled up figures.

Garth turns to Timmy again, "Do you want Dr. Fizzles to stay with you?“ Hesistantly, Timmy nods and Garth pulls the sock with hair and eyes over the boy's unbandaged hand. Timmy hugs Dr. Fizzles and stares up at them with way to big eyes for his small face. "Sarah here will take care of you, okay?“

Garth pats the woman on the shoulder. "Thank you, Sarah. I'll come back as soon as I can. Unfortunately, we have to go." - "Monster?" Garth thinks for a moment. "Something like that." He hugs Sarah to say goodbye, Dean only raises his hand briefly, too much shame of being such a useless, random guy burning in him.

It's almost a relief as Garth pulls him away from the fires into the darkness, away from the charitable huntress and the dying boy. "This way."

Garth puts one arm half around Dean. "Are you okay, Dean? You're so calm." Dean notices his shoulders resisting physical contact, not because it's Garth, but because he doesn't deserve someone to take care of him like that.

"Mhmm. 'm okay."

"Sarah's great. She and the other hunters are doing a really good job."

"You mean unlike me?" The bad conscience gnaws away on him with pointed teeth. Sometimes he thinks it has proceeded quite well and there are only bare bones left of him in many places.

"And who takes care of the vampires, Wendigos, ghosts ... Werewolves?" He looks at Garth to see if he reacts to it, but Garth just keeps walking along this dark, dark road towards a target that only he knows, but is already raising goose bumps on Dean's skin.

"When everyone is playing Samaritan..." Dean starts when Garth suddenly stops abruptly. "At the moment this here is more important. More people die from the consequences of Armageddon than from the remaining vampires or ghosts. Did you really not notice anything?"

Eventually, the defiance in him clenches like a glowing fist. He has no desire to explain himself, no desire to put into words how his life has been since then. Animalistically would fit quite well. Hunting, killing and fucking (if the opportunity arose), eating and sleeping (if he could) like an asphalt migratory bird just flying further, further, further away from the cold.

Before he even can utter a word of his helpless rage towards this whole fucked up world, towards Garth, towards himself, screams are breaking the nocturnal silence one block away.

Suddenly shots are fired. A police car roars past them with red-blue flashing lights. In the opposite direction. It's a bit like purgatory here. Everybody seems to be on their own. Dog eat dog!

Dean is so in his own head that he doesn't even notice that Garth's determined steps slow down before him and runs straight into his back.

He peers over his shoulder and sees - nothing. Darkness spreads before them, but it is a different darkness than the one that surrounds them. This darkness is made of the blackest black, blacker than the interior of a cave on a starless night at the North Pole in December, blacker than the soul of Lucifer, blacker than his despair, and his guilty conscience combined.

But, actually, it's not black. It is - nothing.

Substanceless wobbling, formless. He should have recognized it immediately. The cruelest monster he has ever fought - has tried to fight. Nothing had helped back then. No weapons and certainly not free will.

"I should have gone with Sammy." Dean hadn't wanted to say that out loud. But as he hears his own words, he feels how true it rings.

"But you're alive, Dean."

'Something like that,' Dean thinks and turns away from Garth so he doesn't say it out loud by accident. In his mind's eye, the scene replays for the thousandth time - Sam being pulled into the nothing and Mary wanting to catch him, but instead they are both sucked into the black.

He was on the verge of jumping after the two, when something ripped through him ... Something tore him back so vehemently at his arm that there was raw flesh and blood.

"NO!!!" Cas yells at him. He has never seen the angel so angry before, then his face went softer again. "Dean ... they're gone! And we have to leave - now!"

He had seen Cas lifting his fingers, briefly feeling the pressure on his forehead, then he was sitting in the Impala. He had waited. Ten secondes, half a minute, one minute, two, three, five, ten. Cas would certainly materialize right next to him. Any time now ...

But he never came.

_Once again as in olden days_  
_Happy golden days of yore_  
_Faithful friends who are dear to us_  
_Will be near to us once more_

Dean stares at the black in front of him, wants to strangle it, burn it, stab it, shoot it dead, dead, dead. But instead he falls to his knees in front of it. He wants Sam back. Mum. Cas? Dean stares at the black, but it's more like the black is staring at him, stares into him.

Why? For what? At least he wants to understand that part. There had always been a reason, a sense behind evil. But here?

Nothing.

The black has a strange attraction for him, attracts him like a magical magnet, whispers to him that when he throws himself into it, all and everything will be over - finally. All his worries and hardships dissolved into nothing.

Nothing!

His lips move in a prayer without words. So many have passed into it, passed away, leaving no trace. Sammy, Mum. Cas? His hope. Why shouldn't he just follo...

Something grabs him by the collar of his jacket. "We better go," he hears Garth behind him. Dean's hand has almost reached the barrier between world and nothing.

The pull on his jacket becomes a pull on his whole body and the well-known nauseating whirling starts again.

A backyard emerges from the crazy chain carousel effect. Dean stumbles against a wall that is covered with graffiti all over, the colours so bright that he gets dizzy. And they move.

"I'm sorry, Dean, that was only the first part!" Garth looks at him with an apologetic half smile.

On the masonry, a sprayed blue door begins to deform into streaks, like in the only LSD trip he's ever tried. A blue shining beam and the door sucks him and Garth in.

It's dark. Not the darkness of nothingness, but a bluish twilight and he thinks

'Welcome Home!'

_Someday soon we all will be together_  
_If the fates allow_

  
_Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow ..._  
  


*


	5. Now - The Saviour

*

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
Music: The Courage or the Fall by Civil Twilight  
  


[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OnNDELJMp40 ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OnNDELJMp40)   
  


Lyrics: <https://genius.com/Civil-twilight-the-courage-or-the-fall-lyrics>  
  
  


  
  


  
  


Chapter Five

**Now - The Saviour**

_Man wasn't made to live alone …_

He looks around with a prejoyous shiver. In the twilight he can make out the shadow of a man less than ten metres in front of them.

Even though the man has his back turned to them, Dean immediately recognizes the broad, slightly forward bent shoulders under the dark blue coat, the raised collar, the captain's cap above.

The man in front of him lifts his head like an animal picking up a scent and turns around at lightning speed, ready to jump, his bone axe at the ready.

Even here in the semi-darkness the man's eyes shine. First a hostile blue, then a recognizing warm one with a hint of sadness.

"Fuck you, Garth," whispers Dean. "Now show me how I cut off Benny's head back then." But Garth only takes a few steps to the side. At first Dean thinks he wants to give Benny and him some privacy, but when Garth pulls out a machete, he realizes again: "This is Purgatory."

_… that's why I have my enemies._   
_Whenever I close my eyes_   
_They're all I can see._

Benny still stares at Dean, stroking over his beard a few times. He had forgotten how astonishingly deep blue this man's eyes shine.

Hesitantly, but without disconnecting their eyes, they approach each other.

"Hi, Chief," Benny says quietly and Dean bridges the last meter until he holds his old fellow firmly in his arms. "Man, it's good to see you," he mumbles into the scratchy tweed of the coat and into Benny's shoulder. Maybe those dreams aren't so bad after all.

He hears Benny swallow several times and then his old companion pats him hard on the back. "I really wouldn't have thought, that I'd see you again..." Suddenly Benny stiffens in his arms. "Dean!" Benny pushes him away. Pointed teeth shine white in the grey-blue dusk. "Your smell..."

Dean is shortly shocked, then he wants the embrace back, he doesn't care about anything else. Nothing has felt so good for a year.

"Dean!" A grumbled warning, but it has a completely different effect on him, evoking long nights at the campfire, fights in which they worked like the precision mechanics in a clockwork. Complete trust.

He wants this intimacy between them back, this span of his life that was easy, nearly beautiful in its simplicity. Kill and live. Or get killed.

Compared to everything else he had to go through, it just had made so much sense. He takes another step towards Benny, who turns his face away with a suppressed growl.

"Deannnn ..." All of his attention is on Benny, reading his old friend attentively. "You won't hurt me," he then concludes decisively, but Benny's teeth are still far too long and pointed.

"I am sorry, Dean, it's just ... it has been a long time and I am not used to your smell anymore. It is just so ..." There are small fires blazing in the vampire's eyes.

It doesn't matter to him. It's just so good to see Benny again.

"Benny, can you ..." He lowers his voice, so Garth wouldn't understand. "Can you ... You could turn me. ... Right?" Almost anxious, he waits for the answer.

"I would never, Dean. I couldn't ... As much as I would like to keep you here, but ... Purgatory is no longer a good place."

A shiver is running down Dean's back. Benny is sounding even more disillusioned when he had failed in the human world. How could he have asked him to return to Purgatory for Sam?

"Back then ... when you came here with Sam ... Did you really decide to stay? Sam made it sound like that, but I always had my doubts."

"Yes, brother." Benny shakes his head decidedly. "It was like Sam said. I wanted to stay and until the nothing came ... Me? I didn't really regret it." The vampire lowers his gaze to the ground. "Only ... you I've missed."

A mixture of nostalgia and hope burns in Dean's eyes. "But you're still not staying here, Chief. Got it!?! It's not like it was back then. If you are able to go, then ..." Benny nods over to Garth. "Then you better go."

"You could ... come along - again?" Dean holds out his forearm to Benny, but he just smiles sadly. "Thank you, Dean. But I stay. Until one of the others catches me. Or the nothing sucks me in! But until then I fight - alone. The thought that you're on the other side helps me."

"As if it's better there ...", Dean mumbles quietly, but Benny's vampire ears catch it anyway. "You can't stay here. Look! Over there."

Dean pries into the blue twilight, but sees nothing. "There, between the crooked pine and the hemlock fir." The feeling of being blind returns. And the temptation, the allurement. Without thinking Dean walks towards the spot - as if in a trance - because he suddenly knows that everything will be better there.

"Woah, brother. Careful!" Benny pulls him back by the shoulder. "I've come too close to it once before as well." A pull on his shoulder tears Dean out of the enchantment. Benny looks at him seriously. "We don't know what exactly happens in it, but ... you go in, you don't come back."

"I know. We have that, too." - "Fuck! Sorry, brother. I didn't know that. Did you find out what that is? I mean, you have all this Men of Letter stuff and ... What kind of power is that, Dean?" Benny shakes his head, but Dean just stares thoughtfully into the impenetrable dark nothing. "Don't you sometimes wonder what it's like in there? Maybe it's better?"

The cracking of branches behind them cuts him off. Benny immediately pulls him behind a big tree trunk. Garth comes running. "We have to go, Dean!"

He can't. He just can't make this decision right now, but Benny hugs him and he just puts his face to the curve of Benny's neck. His stubbles scratches his skin and he inhales the smell of resin and blood and sweat that was once as familiar to him as his own.

_Every man needs his saviour.  
Every saviour needs his task.  
But which one am I, the man or the one behind the mask?_

He does not want to leave, just keeps holding onto Benny as onto a lifeline, but his friend gently pushes him away and pulls out his bone axe, giving Dean one last look. "See you on the other side, Brother!" and storms off towards the attackers without waiting for an answer.

Garth grabs his hand. It's like back then. Something pulls at him, a suction like in a wind tunnel. Even the blue glow is the same. It's a little more pleasant than Charlie's flea powder carousel, but the memory hurts.

As the wind calms down, they are standing in the dark. "Garth, this constant darkness thing sucks:" His thoughts are still with Benny in Purgatory. There is a hand in his and it is comforting, but even though he likes Garth, it is too weird. "Eh, I think you can let go of my hand now, Garth. ... Thank you."

He takes a deep breath. These dreams are so fucking intense. The air that surrounds them is stale, but at the same time strangely familiar. "So, what's this station in our dream travel itinery?" He hates the uncertain trembling in his voice. "Can you somehow conjure up some light, so that we know where we are?" He's not sure if he really wants to know.

"Sure, I can do magic." Next to him Dean hears a click and then a cone of light from a flashlight illuminates a piece of concrete floor.

"How nice ..." Dean waits for Garth to illuminate the surroundings, but he leaves the light on the floor. The leg of a chair becomes visible and a terrible suspicion crawls up his throat. A table peels itself out of the darkness next.

With a quiet groan, Dean drops onto one of the chairs. "Can't you take us to a less emotional place?" - "Not really. I mean, there is a plan here with the whole journey through your past and present. But, nevertheless, where would you like to go?" - "How about the beach," Dean grumbles and rolls his eyes.

"Sure. I mean, you could do that, Dean, instead of hanging out alone in Rufus' forest hut!" Dean looks at Garth with this intense petrifying stare that effectively silences most people. "You could go to California, even Mexico...," Garth continues unimpressed. "Or to Europe. I've always wanted to go to Europe. Maybe England ..."

Dean stares for another minute, then gives up with a sigh. "Okay. Why are you showing me this?" - "What do you think, Dean?" - "Ah, fuck off. Charlie kept asking me this as well. I don't know. I don't have a fucking clue! Okay? And you are not a fucking teacher, Garth." Still, he ponders the stupid question. "So that I feel guilty because I screwed it all up - and survived?"

"Nope. Wrong."

"Hmmm. So that ... I return from my hunter's enclosure and finally start helping again, take responsibility, continue the family business?" He is a little proud that he knows the word "enclosure" and uses it correctly, because his life in the hut is nothing else. He beams at Garth with an exaggerated grin, but Garth only looks back at him seriously

The cone of light touches something metallic under a layer of dust.

Impulsively, he tears the flashlight from Garth's hands. Sam's laptop is still standing at the exactly same spot where he left it on the day of the catastrophe.

The case is glazed with dust. Dean hesitantly wipes off the grey layer with the sleeve of his jacket, opens up the screen and presses the start button with a heavy heart. No whirring. No flickering. Nothing moves. The laptop remains black and dead.

Dean slams the lid down way to vehemently and hears Sam's voice as clearly as if he was standing behind him. "Hey, Dean. Could you please stop treatiing my stuff so shitty." Memory-Sam falls silent much too quickly. A little more gently Dean pushes the computer on the command table away from him directly against a box of dried and blue mouldy pizza pieces.

"Are we looking for something in particular here?" It sounds harsher than he meant it. "I think only you have an answer to that, Dean!" - "Well, great. Then we're safe."

Dean swings the flashlight wildly through the room. He shouldn't feel like a burglar here. With growing uneasiness he sneaks - Garth in tow - through the big hall, almost stumbles over the first step up to the library.

The bunker is still engraved in his muscle memory. He turns into the hallway. Three doors down is Sam's room. His gait becomes heavier with every step, as if he has to cross a continent or the fucking universe. "Garth, can you for a moment ... just leave me ...?

Garth has disappeared before he has finished the sentence and he is suddenly alone.

Dean gently lays his hand on the wood of the door, then his forehead. He doesn't want to open it, but his hand slips to the handle by itself. Even before he enters, he is enveloped by Sam. The Impala doesn't smell like his brother anymore and he never understood how this could happen. After all, Sam had spent hours, years, decades in it. It had been his home.

Carefully he sits down on Sam's bed. They always have been so fucking busy during their life - their lives! But they have not seen the Grand Canyon.

Other people are smart enough to duck out of annoying, stressful and dangerous tasks of life. But not the Winchesters. They have only just been great at procrastinating the good things in their life, their own wishes.

Well, he and Dad had. Sam and Mum had fought for themselves, for their desire for their own take on an "apple pie life". Successfully, even though it had only worked very temporarily.

Stanford suddenly strikes him in a completely different light. For the first time he is really - really! - happy that Sam has had a normal life for a few years, that he had Jessica. (Amelia he better doesn't think about her.)

He hadn't had that many wishes. Actually just wanted to see the Grand Canyon. And maybe the ocean.

If Dean reflects on the many years on the road, the dozens of times he has driven or been driven across all the States of the United States, then they actually should have had to hit the Pacific at some point - purely by chance. Or at least the Atlantic. It never has happened.

Of course, he has seen oceans in films and countless documentaries. But it's probably different to stand at the edge of the continent, then watch it on a grisly little tube TV. Waves probably don't sound so distorted.

How did the Pacific smell? Does salt water feel different on the skin than the water in the lakes in Massachusetts and Wyoming or the green algae motel pools in Idaho?

In Palo Alto, back in a different life, Sam wanted to take him to the coast. But he had been consumed by the search for Dad - like a kind of hypnosis, had even become angry at his little hedonistic brother, who had betrayed the family business, in order to study at an elite university and have a steady girlfriend. And to go to the beach.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean whispers into the dusty darkness. "We should have just done it. Just break out, break free. I mean ... I should have done it. But ..." He buries his face in his hands. " ...it was about Dad!"

He carefully breathes in and out a few times as if the air is the fragile one. Then he rubs his face and forces them away, the thoughts of Dad and ...

Gently he rises from the bed. As he opens the door, his finger tips brush against something soft. Flannel. He hides his face in it, takes a deep breath, loses himself in Sam's old smell of sweat like a hug. It's as if he finds his brother at the same time as he is losing him again. How little of a person remained.

He takes the shirt off the hook and rolls it up into a small bundle, hesitating briefly in the hallway. He could try it, try to let himself fall into something like everyday life or routine here in the bunker, though the attempt would probably be bleak.

The bunker has been his second real home after the Impala, his third if you count Lawrence, but he doesn't really remember the old house there in much detail. Only Mum burning on the ceiling.

He peers into the darkness, down the hallway in the direction of his own room, but there's nothing there he needs anymore. He doesn't need weapons anymore, he doesn't listen to music anymore.

The bunker reminds him of a museum or more of a mausoleum of better times. Slowly he walks back into the war room and with relief sees Garth sitting in front of a small candle at the command table. The picture is almost homey.

He flashes the torch light over the shelves of books, sees something small scurrying away in the light. If the rodents settle down here, soon there would be nothing left of the Man of Letters. Someone should really take care of it.

He shines the lamp onto Sam's laptop, reaches out his hand to it, but everything feels heavy. If he leaves a note with the password, maybe another hunter could use it for research.

But this was only a dream anyway, an illusion, so why should he bother?

"Dean?" Garth has put on his typical smile, but underneath is something like ... Sadness? "I'm really sorry, but I have to take you back home now."

"Back?" After all the stops Dean doesn't know where home is, has probably never really known it. He feels stranded between past and present and maybe that's not such a bad place. After all, despite the horrible scenes, he saw many of his old riends again. Benny. Sam was so close to him ...

"You really should think about how you want to go on, Dean!"

"I'm fine," he growls. "I have everything I need. Besides ... there is no "going on"."

_What comes first?_

_The Courage or the Fall?_

"Really?" Garth pulls him into one of those typical embraces, where he always has the feeling that a spider monkey is attached to him and that always last too long. Also this time. But after ten seconds, he feels Garth disappearing in his arms, dissolving.

That is the moment, when he tries to hold onto him, doesn't want him to go, but like a candle slowly goes out, Garth's contours dissolve and blur in the darkness.

Damn! 'If you once need a hippie, then ...' Dean thinks, then everything turns black.

When Dean comes to, the first thing he sees is a huge starry sky above him. He laboriously rolls over, half supported by his backpack on the way. His clothes are now completely soaked through and his hip injury has this dull thumping again, which always comes when he doesn't keep the spot warm enough.

He carefully drags himself through the door, into the hut. It takes far too long until the fire is really ablaze and he would like to crawl into the flames being so cold, down to his bones.

Fucking Humbug!. He does not deserve this shit. Or maybe he does?

With a sigh he reaches for the whisky, then puts it back again and instead lies down on a blanket in front of the fireplace.

  
  


_Is that a saviour outside my window?_   
_Or is that a reflection of me?_

_*_


	6. Next - The Shell

*

Trigger warning: Suicidal thoughts and suicide attempt

Song: Killing Dragons by K's Choice

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fkvb1Lo_DJ8>

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fj9hkaYN6PU> \- Live

Lyrics: <https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/kschoice/killingdragons.html>

Chapter Six

**Next - The Shell**

_Take my body, my shell!_

_It's old and it's worn and it's broken._

_Whitefish, Montana – 24. Dezember 2023_

Hard. Cold. Bright. Dean opens his eyes and doesn't understand where he is. As his gaze wanders to the left, he sees the fireplace. Despite the uncomfortable wooden floor, he has slept better than he has in a long time. Probably because of the long march.

The blanket has half slipped off him in the night and now he is bitterly cold. Only his feet are warmed by the sunshine falling through the window. With a deep sigh he gets up. A back muscle cramps with every movement and he tries to stretch into it against the pain. He is really too old for nights on the floor. Maybe a hot shower will help him.

He peers outside. No, there's no sign of Garth's old pickup truck. He didn't really expected it, but the dream was just so vivid. Fucking ghosts. Still, he misses to have Garth around. It was nice even though he probably would not admit it out loud.

He stretches and his back cracks satisfyingly. On the way to the small bathroom corner he tears down his shirt with a groan, slips out of his muddy jeans and drops them to the floor along with his boxer shorts. He climbs into the much too small shower tray in the corner, in which he hits his elbow on the fittings. „Every fucking time,“ he curses.

The water is - once again - barely lukewarm and goose bumps spread across his chest. The damn sun is shining – once again - but tonight the temperatures seem to have dropped rapidly, because it is damn cold in the hut. Actually he should have fixed the boiler long ago, but he just didn't find the energy to drive down to Whitefish to order a new thermostat in the hardware store.

He angles around the shower curtain for a black plastic bottle, squeezes only a little of the shower gel onto his hand. It's Sam's and it smells so nobly fancy of cedar and tobacco and something super mysterious. It's good. It's very good. Especially because it reminds him of Sam. He doesn't know where his brother had bought it, probably not from the gas station shop. So he just takes very little each time, carrying a little bit of Sam with him through the day. The bottle is only one quarter full anymore.

Dean's finger glide over the two bulging scars on his chest. He's had them since he was twenty-four. Back then, he hunted alone. With Dad or Sam, that dumb farmer's ghost probably wouldn't have caught him with her pitchfork.

There is another scar on his left side, just besides his navel, this one he is wearing with pride. His second hunt with Dad. He had saved John's life when he was only twelve years old. The werewolf had already shredded his claws through the first layer of Dad's jacket, when he had at last gotten to the gun and fired. Bull's eye.

Only the scars on his forearm, visible and invisible, are the ones, he is not thinking about - ever. Unless he can't avoid it. And that's never.

Sighing, he caresses the only visible mark, that is left of Cas. They are painful in a different way. Quickly, he runs his finger tips over the much too smooth, inconspicuous skin, where the mark of Cain has been emblazoned.

Too many memories, nasty ones. Too much pain. He washes off the remaining foam, which disappears as grey suds into the drain.

He rubs his hair dry as best he can - Sam would laugh about how wildly they spike off his head - and slips into his clothes from yesterday, which are still a little damp from his unconscious adventures outside.

Barefoot he shuffles over the cool wooden floorboards to the kitchenette. Only two drops fall out of the coffee pot. He is so desperate, he would even have drunken cold one, but now he has to fix a new brew, using an extra spoon of coffee powder. He can not, under any circumstances, fall asleep tonight.

The last two nights have been a very dark panopticon. He has never dreamed fucked up shit like this before, at least not to that extent, and considering his life, this really says something. But if he's honest, he misses them, all those people and... and all the others from his past, seeing them was ...

But no, he better not sleep tonight.

Shortly, he is even considering a spell or curse, but he hasn't had contact with anyone, so … Nah. It's just his stupid, sentimental self, that is conjuring up memories mixed with longing, just because it is fucking Christmas.

By now, he has understood the principle behind the „ghosts“. Some years ago at Christmas, Sam and he have watched a film in the Bunker, that was based on some legendary story from Ol' England.

Apparently, his dreams are in copycat mode. Sam probably would have known the name of the book, but he can't even remember the name of the movie, only that Jim Carrey had played this mean-spirited old guy.He remembers very well, how strangely it had been animated - very uncanny valley way, just the beginning of animated real actors.

If he had Internet, he could look it up, do research, what his subconscious, that seems to recall that stupid movie far too well, probably has in store for him tonight.

He himself can only recollect bits and pieces. Either he was too drunk or too tired to watch the film properly.

But it doesn't matter. It's not going to happen tonight, because he just will not sleep and so the third ghost can't haunt him and shove his nose into this pile of crappy stuff that his life has been or will be (Wasn't the last one some kind of future ghost?), only to disappear without a sound and leave him alone again.

The goal of the whole thing seems to be to drive him nuts and they had managed that just fine so far, despite the joy to see his old friends again.

He always has hated dwelling on his life. Useless reflections on the ifs and whens, the could and woulds and shouldn'ts. Useless.

And now the fucking future. No, thanks.

Dean is staring out into the sunshine from Hell. 'Why am I even waiting for death, damn it? I am the practical one. I have enough weapons. I know how to use them.' The thought is impulsive and dangerous and far too impeccable.

He takes a sip of coffee, still scalding hot, burning through his gullet deep into his stomach. 

A plan is taking shape within him. He will set off for Whitefish tonight and spend the "Holy Night" with the other poor souls in the Church of cheap Beer and even cheaper Whisky, in the 'Heart of Gold' Bar and then he will ..

~*~

"Merry Christmas, Dean!" Crystal, the blonde waitress behind the bar, looks at him attentively as she puts the double whisky down in front of him without him needing to order. 

Of all the people here in Whitefish, Crystal is probably the person he trusts most. The smile she throws at him when he enters the bar is always right between maternal and flirtatious. He estimates her age to be somewhere in her mid-fifties - The age at which Ellen died. - even though she tries to cover it up.

Back then Ellen had seemed old to him, but now he's well over forty himself.

In the beginning, Crystal had slipped him her phone number with a whisky - twice. One evening, after the fifth beer and the seventh whisky, he had told her that he wasn't a good man, too much darkness in his life, that at some point it always rubs off on the people around him, too many abysses into which everyone around him is inevitably falling.

With a musing smile she had assessed him from top to bottom and then looked him in the eye for a long time: "Dean Winchester, even though I've only known you for a few months, there is one thing I know for sure: when you first walked through that door, it was immediately clear to me, that you are a good man. And believe me, working in a bar, I know people and you are a righteous man."

Those words had made Dean wince, which he quickly disguised as a shrug. 

However, since that evening she has limited herself to simply patting Dean's hand every now and then when she puts a new whisky in front of him. 

In one corner a group of drunk skiers have made themselves comfortable. Normally tourists don't come to this run-down pub, but tonight there is probably not much else open. If he interprets the accent correctly, they probably have come to Whitefish over the nearby border to Canada. One of the boozers is hitting his buddy so hard on the back, that he pours beer over his hockey sweatshirt. 

The only other regulars tonight are Ted and Wally. Dean nods ovter to the two older guys, who always wear work clothes, even today on Christmas Eve. Even though he never really confirmed it, Dean is sure that the two are always here at the "Heart of Gold", only going to their real home to sleep.

They have almost reached the status of pieces of furniture. The two are always there - together and secretly, Dean has the assumption that the two are a couple. He never dared to ask Crystal this kind of gossip and maybe Ted and Wally don't even know themselves.

When Crystal puts the fifth beer on his table at midnight, she looka at him with a little furrow in her elegantly plugged brows. "You sure you're okay, Dean?"

For a moment, he is considering to tell her – obviously not his whole intention, but … maybe reminiscing about some bits of his life with her. It might be nice to be remembered by someone.

No. She's a civilian. A very nice civilian.

Another thought strikes his mind. If it is really over now, wouldn't some "Last-night-on-earth"-sex be a fitting bottom line to the last hours of his shitty existence?

_Take my lips they are free_

_and they're no use to me._

_All I wanted to say has been spoken._

Dean intensifies his gaze towards Crystal, who is glittering and sparkling festively in a golden sequin top. With his head slightly lowered, he telegraphs a small grin to her over the counter, scanning her softly, but intently under his long lashes, whilst biting casually on his lower lip.

Surprised she smiles back with a little wink at the end. Clearly, she is also a master at this game. A touch of warm contentment rushes through him, relaxes him. The old Dean Winchester charm seems to still work after all.

He doesn't like the worry in her eyes, because it is far too justified. But what should he say? 'No, actually nothing is fine. Everyone's dead and I'm sitting here uselessly thinking about the best way to get rid of myself as well tonight.'?

She dries her fingers on a dishwasher towel and puts her hand on his. Briefly, he nearly flinches, then he enjoys the touch. "I'm … okay.' He finally grits out. „It's just..." - "That day?" He nods, grateful for the easy way out. He does not pull his hand away, enjoying the warmth that flows from her skin into his. Now would be the time...

_Take my hands they are cold._

_They're too fragile to hold._

_It's so hard to believe they were mine ...  
_

"Can I have another whisky, Crystal?" The magic, they both started to create between themselves is broken. She squeezes his hand a last time. „... Of course. It's on the house."

~*~

Two hours later, Dean staggers out to the parking lot - alone. He feels his way along the roughly-cut boards of the bar to the Impala. 

The stars above him are so clear that he only has to stretch out his arm to pick one of the small white lanterns from the sky.

With a bottle of whisky, which he has coaxed out from Crystal, he throws himself into the back seat. It's freezing cold inside and every breath glides through the car like a ghostly white dragon. In the last few hours, the temperatures must have dropped below freezing point.

Well … There you go. That should do the trick.

It's a pity he is so drunk that he can't drive his car down to the river. It would be nicer there .... Not that it really would make a difference if he got into a car accident. But he doesn't want to hit drag someone else down this road down to hell by mistake.

So he has do it here. He's gonna drink himself unconscious and the rest would be dealt with by the cold. He puts the bottle of Jack to his lips. The golden liquid tastes remotely like whisky, but mostly sweet and fruity. Apple juice. For a moment, he is really, really pissed, then he a laughing attack hits him right in the chest. His life is so fucking pathetic. He can't even drink himself to death.

A car exits the parking lot and the headlights shine for a moment into the Impala, illuminating something on the door panel.

_S.W._

_D.W._

The carved in letters cut him deep, deep, deep into the heart. He lifts the bottle of apple juice: "Merry Christmas, Sammy!"

_I see you and myself_

_In the backyard we're twelve_

_killing dragons with swords made of wood._

His big, little sasquatch nerd brother. The longing for him is so intense that the skin on his arms is tingling. "Bear Hug" is what he used to call his hugs with Sam. There weren't as many as there used to be when they got older, but when it happened, it was like sinking into Sam. Just the two of them, and it was you and me against the world.

_We chased them away,_

_but they came back today_

_and I'd fight them again if I could_

All of a sudden, the waterworks inside him starts up and he is too fucking drunk to think of Sammy.

To turn it off, he runs his jacket sleeve over his eyes and nose. Crying is so disgusting and annoying, not at all like in the movies, where it always looks so pretty heartrending and melodramatic.

His eyes are burning. Snot runs out of his nose and down the back of his way to tight throat. His shoulders twitch uncontrollably with every sob and his eyes are burning. At least he gets a little warm again with all the ruckus, even if that wasn't the plan.

Slowly his breath calms down again. The crying has made him tired and his limbs feel useless and heavy. Nevertheless, he shouldn't fall asleep, because then he would surely get a sadistic spirit in the guise of a person, who is totally important to him and he seriously don't need this right now. He has finished with everything anyway.

Just drifting away – into the cold embrace – not into sleep. He lies down on his back, the cold, soft leather greeting him like an old friend.

_Take my soul_   
_(Take my soul)_   
_Take it whole_

With every minute, a little more of the warmth that he had tanked up in the bar evaporates through his layers of clothes, out of his pores. The cold reaches with icy fingers under his jacket, then under his flannel shirt, touches his skin and his teeth start to chatter. From his condensed breath, ice flowers grow on the windows and cover the starry sky.

Stop it! All you have to do is turn on the ignition and drive back to the cabin. The thought is appealing, but there is not enough promise in going back to the empty hut, that makes him move.

His thoughts become slower, duller and after a little eternity, which he can't quantify in time, it's not so bad anymore.

_But my hands are so light_

_and too fragile to fight._

_It's so hard to believe they once did._

Suddenly, the atmosphere inside the car changes. A feeling that makes his skin crackle, the hairs on his right arm stand up like little sensors.

He has felt it hundreds of times and despite his dizziness, his hunting instinct kicks in, running a checklist by him like on autopilot.

Weapons? In the trunk. Fuck. The only thing made of iron is baby's car keys.

What monster? Another ghost? No, different. Someone, something is in his personal space, with him in the back seat. He can feel it under his skull plate, all along his right side.

Danger or false alarm? He lets his senses probe the cold darkness beside him. His eyes tell him, that there is nothing, nobody. But his inner radar flashes and shrills.

Maybe it is his reaper. Finally, he is going … home?

_Take it all now my dear_

_(Take it now)_

_Take it from here_

_(Take it now)_

_Take it all now my dear ...  
_

_*_


	7. Next - The Shadowman

*

Song #1: Shadowman by K’s Choice

<https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Li1GyYM5XaU>  
Lyrics: <https://genius.com/Ks-choice-shadowman-lyrics>

  
  
Song #2: Kashmir by Led Zeppelin  
Lyrics: <https://genius.com/Led-zeppelin-kashmir-lyrics>  
Song: Shadowman by K's Choice

Chapter Five

**Now - The Shadowman**

_If you're coming down to rescue me_

Friend or foe? ... The signal is - not aggressive.

Friend? The situation is worrying, but at the same time a strange peace is spreading through him - for the first time in over a year.

"Angels are watching over you!" he hears inside himself. The sentence comes abruptly - from nowhere, still it is as if a piece of the puzzle has been handed to him.

"Cas...?"

_... or was it me who came to you.  
_

_Shadowman._

There's no one here, but he can feel it. The charged up atmosphere inside the car, like a hovering thunderstorm, voltage filling the air. It feels like when Cas has been much too close to him, penetrating his personal space as if Dean had belonged to him. Stupid him had always claimed that he didn't like it. He always has been good with blunt lies. Childhood training.

"Cas"?

This sudden, mysterious closeness to the angel is breathtaking. There is so much he would like to know from him, wants to ask. Where have you been? What has happened? Where are you now? What … took you so long?

Dean feels a warm pulsing by his side. He can almost feel Cas breath on his neck, Cas intense blue stare. Why has he never given in to this sensual intrusion? There had been so many moments between them, in which just a minimal sign, a bend, a small touch would have tipped over the final domino piece, leading to a cascade of them falling into ...

_Doesn't it make you sad_

_to see so much love denied?_

_See nothing but a shadowman inside._

The closeness tears at the old wounds like a hungry animal and the quiet moment turns into an exhausting carousel of thoughts, Dean ending up in a loop: Is he still alive? // If so, why didn't he answer? // If no, how did he die? // Why? // What for? // Why wasn't I able to help him? // Why the fuck couldn't I help anybody? // They're all dead. // Andwhyofallpeoplewasithimthatsurvived?

_Any time tomorrow a part of me will die_

_And a new one will be born._

_Oh here's the sun again_

_Isn't it appealing to recline_

_Get blinded and to go into the light again_

He reaches over the backrest and turns the ignition key to the first catch. The radio hums to life and a boys' choir squeaks "Silent Night" through the car in the highest tones. Quickly he pushes the cassette into the deck and lets himself sink back to Led Zepplin's Kashmir against the rear door. The familiar music takes away the edge and finally he is able to tell himself, that it is just his overactive imagination – just like as in the last two nights.

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zAvn73dKZL4 ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zAvn73dKZL4)

He lies back down onto the back seat and drinks another gulp of apple juice.

_~ * ~_

_Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face_

_Stars fill my dream_

_I'm a traveler of both time and space_

_To be where I have been_

_*_

Fuck!!! He must have dozed off against his better judgement. For a split second, he thinks, that he is dead – finally, because his mind is so hazy.

But then with the adrenalin of being startled, his hunter instincts kick in full speed. Something's not right. Again!. It really starts to piss him off. He is finished with being a hunter. Carefully he straightens, scans his surroundings through the skull-splitting headache.

In front of him. In front of him, there is a dark figure sitting on the driver's seat. He reaches for the silver knife in his bootleg.

"That won't help, Dean!", grumbles the figure under his big black hood without turning around. It sounds creepily distorted, though not really evil.

"Son of bitch. Can't you, friggin' spirits, just leave me alone?" He is trying to see more of the entity.

"Don't be afraid, Dean!" The voice is as veiled as the figure before him, dark, strange to him and yet familiar.

He pulls open the latch to the back door and immediately falls halfway out of the car, landing with his knee in a puddle as he tries to get up. He struggles to open the passenger door, lets himself fall exhausted from the action onto the seat next to the apparition and runs his hands over the wet jeans fabric. "All of you ghosts say that and then you show me a late night show of „Dean's little shop of emotional horrors“. No, thank you."

_And any time tomorrow_

_The sun will cease to shine_

_There's a shadowman who told me so_

Dean is pulling the passenger door into the lock against the cold, when the dark figure snaps its fingers and in the next moment they race through a kind of dark corridor, yellow lines shoot past underneath them, glaring cones of light burn white holes into the darkness. They drive so fast that the signs and lights shoot past them with Enterprise Warp speed, and he is pressed into the passenger seat as in one of those horrible take-offs in planes.

He looks over at the figure, but espies only a black robe with a long hood pulled completely into the face of the silhouette The creature has only one hand on the steering wheel and for a moment he looks like ... but ithat's not possible. Is it?

Then he suddenly hallucinates, that there is a scythe in its hand. "Death?!" It almost sounds hopeful. "Listen, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to kill you, but...

"I'm not Death, Dean!"

Dean's takes a breath for the next name. He knows, even before he says it, that it's not true, it doesn't feel like him, at least not like before, but he still hopes that ...

"Cas?"

"No, my son. I'm sorry."

The disembodied voice sounds ... sad? But the cowled man already has stopped talking again and Dean takes refuge in a welcomed flaming rage. "Yeah. Sure. Great. Just go ahead and show me my worst misdeeds?"

„That depends.“ The mystery man's voice sounds way too calm.

"On what? You fucking ghosts with your fucking mysterious insinuations..."

"On you, Dean!"

Kashmir is still blasting out of the speakers and it does look as if the figure is nodding its head with the rhythm.

_All will be revealed_

He should simply make short work of it and pull down the hood of the guy. These stupid dream monsters in friendly shells, pretending to know something he doesn't understand, although it seems to be strikingly obvious to everyone else.

He takes a deep breath – three - silently. "Where are we?"

"It's not so much where, Dean, as when."

They are standing in an abandonded room of a teenager, he would guess at the first impression. It's dark outside. In the mirror above the dresser, he sees himself, and behind him this strange, dark figure, who looks like the clichéd death in books - just without the scythe. But the real death would never have dressed up in sackcloth and ashes like that.

A red-white-black poster hangs behind the figure. Led Zepplin's Mothership. He raises an eyebrow.

All of a sudden, there is a commotion outside the room. A young guy storms backwards into the room with a duffel bag in his hand, while screaming out into the hallway: "I'm really old enough now to make my own decisions."

"But not these," a woman's voice is yelling outside.

No-no-no. No!!!

The young man's back is still turned towards Dean and "Death," as he has christened the figure despite the inelegant outfit.

His hands start shaking, because now he recognizes the jacket - his old olive green parka. It fits perfectly around the young man's broad shoulders, who is now throwing clothes with hectic movements into the duffel bag.

"If you leave now, then ..." The voice gets closer and Dean prepares himself for an emotional impact as if he is falling down from a very high building.

"Then what? I shouldn't come back?" Something rattles metallically, then Dean hears a zipper being pulled close.

_Used to know it all by heart_

_But a shadowman inside has let it go_

A woman in a t-shirt dress rushes into the room. Her long dark brown hair is streaked with white strands, but she is still as beautiful as ever, full of energy and despite her fury she looks solid like a rock. "I did not say that, Ben! You know I'll always be there for you."

The man in front of Dean turns to his mother. The sight in profile is like a hard blow to the face. Or rather, it's like looking in the mirror. He looks so damn much like him - in his mid-20s. Besides the brown eyes, Ben has more similiarity to him than Sam does.

Ben lets the bag sink in his hand. "Yeah, I know, Mum.“ Lisa pulls him into a firm embrace and strokes Ben's hair, gets up on the tip of her toes and kisses him on his head. Ben lets it happen, suddenly looking much younger.

Dean's heart is longing for her, for them. Ben is just a little smaller in stature than him. But he's only nineteen, twenty?

With trembling knees Dean turns to the dark figure. "Can they see me?" - "No. That would not be a good idea. . .“ „Death“ shakes his head apologetically. „Would you like that?"

Dean nods, shakes his head, nods, then has to support himself with his hand on the cupboard next to him. His field of vision turns pulse-like - light and dark in rapid intervalls. Lisa and Ben become blurred, then clearer shadows again. He feels as if he is going to faint.

_Talk and song from tongues of lilting grace_

_Whose sounds caress my ear_

_But not a word I heard could I relate_

_The story was quite clear_

"I just don't want you to put yourself in unnecessary danger," Lisa explains. "But with Dean it was okay, right?" Ben shoots back.

Is that sadness he sees in Lisa's face? He doesn't know if he wants it to be, because in a extremely horrible way it's nice that someone still remembers him, that someone misses him.

"Why do they remember again hunters and... me?" he moans, trying to regain control of his body.

"I can't say for sure, Dean, but... ...but it seems that Armageddon reversed some of the supernatural spells." - "But there are still vampires and witches and... all the beasts?" - "It seems it only pertains to the magic angels use...ed."

One hand is no longer enough to hold himself upright. "Does this mean that the angels... They are no longer... They are no more?" - "No one knows, Dean."

The force of the information almost brings him to his knees. He props himself up with both hands on the chest of drawers, directly in front of him the mirror. He sees the dark figure behind him, himself, as if he himself is already part of the future, broken and worn down. He knows better though. He's been looking like this for months, just stopped looking into mirrors.

Behind him, Ben and Lisa continue to argue loudly. "He was raised by his father, Ben, drilled like in the Army. Dean has hunted like others go to school," Lisa screams and her eyes flash with desperation. "You have never had that kind of training."

Dean nods in agreement. How can Ben believe that he can just master this crappy hunter's life from scratch?

"Why do you think Dean came to live with us? Because so much crap happened in his life, Ben, and he had nowhere to go. That's why he stood on our door step that evening, all messed up. He was practically dead inside, Ben."

_Any time tomorrow I will lie and say I'm fine._

_I'll say yes when I mean no ..._

Dean wants to disagree with her, but actually, she's right. He follows the two of them out into the hallway to the stairs.

"Ben." Lisa holds on to the banister like a life line. "I think it's really great that you want to help, but... it's too dangerous. We can still help the "troubled" here." Lisa kneads her hands in her lap. He still knows here tells and it's an unmistakable sign, although the rest of her seems calm.

"But that doesn't fight the cause. I'm gonna find out why that happened to Dean, Mom."

Hot shame twitches through him. Damn it.

"And also what happened back then, what this alleged terrorist attack really is. And how to fight it."

Lisa descends the last steps and puts both hands on Ben's shoulders, but he avoids her gaze. "It's really very ... brave, Ben, but look how this life has ended for Dean. Frozen to death on Christmas Eve in some parking lot in the middle of nowhere. All alone!" Now tears are running down Lisa's face. "He was probably drunk, the whole thing was an accident. That's what the police said."

Ben bites his lower lip.

What the fuck are they talking about? They couldn't know that he... But this seems to be the future, so ...

"They didn't know who Dean was back then, Mum. Not like we do“. - "But we haven't heard from him in years." Lisa hides her face in her hands. Suddenly she looks really old as she strokes tiredly over her eyes. "My point is: the hunter's life is complicated and hard and inhuman. Nobody can survive that kind of thing – physically and emotionally."

Dean nods, pausing as he realizes.

_Any time tomorrow_

_I'll get sick of asking why_

_Sick of all the darkness I have worn_

"But back then, Sam came back, and Dean also got back on his feet again." Somehow he is proud of Ben, the way he stands there and relatively calmly is stating his position.

Lisa shakes her head. "Only to plunge head over into the next catastrophe." - "But he, they both helped people! And that's what we need. That's what you said all along after that catastrophe a year and a half ago. You don't believe in a terrorist attack either. “

If the catastrophe was a year and a half ago, then it had to be spring now, Dean ponders. "Death" has transported him 2-3 months into the future and somehow also into the past, because the fight in front of him reminds him of Sam and Dad when his brother ran away to Stanford ... left for Stanford. Even though the reason for the fight is completely reversed here.

But like Sam then, Ben seems to be winning. His hand reaches for the front door handle.

"No, Mister." Dean storms past Lisa. "You can scrap that." He grabs Ben by the shoulder, who doesn't notice the slightest thing of Dean and his emotional outburst.

"Bye, Mom. I'll call you every night at 10:00 pm, I promise."

"Lisaaaa, damn it!" Dean yells. "You can't let him do this." No one's responding.

Instead, Lisa embraces her - their - son. "And you'd better be in touch or I'll personally find and spank you." She laughs and cries at the same time. "And call Garth if you have any problems, you hear? You know, false pride really isn't helpful. And if you need money..." - "I know, Mum."

Ben's eyes glaze over and he plays with something in his hand - a key that Dean is very familiar with. The police probably have found Lisa's address in his wallet. "He would have wanted me to move on, to continue the family business."

_Oh, pilot of the storm who leaves no trace_

_Like thoughts inside a dream_

_Here is the path that led me to that place._

"Oh, you little punk. You really believe, that I would have wanted this for you?" Dean tries to grab Ben by the shoulder again, but only grabs air and Ben opens the front door. Outside a blackbird sings in the twilight. Lisa stops in the open front door while Ben throws his bag into the trunk of the Impala as if he had done it a thousand times before. With relief Dean sees that all weapons are still there and even the sprayed Devil's Trap is still intact.

_When I'm on, when I'm on my way, yeah_

_When I see, when I see the way, you stay-yeah_

His son opens the driver's door and throws himself into the seat. He looks small behind the steering wheel, as if he still has to grow into Baby. He starts the Impala and the familiar humming of the engine pushes Dean tears in his eyes, which is completely silly because he only heard it a few hours ago.

But, well, seems he has died on that back seat after all.

With a short roar (less throttle, Ben!) and a squeak (the brakes are heavily adjusted. Always step on them very gently!) Ben drives down the driveway and onto the street - a last wave to Lisa, who is standing there with her arms crossed in front of her chest, then her son has disappeared.

As the taillights vanish around the next corner, Lisa sinks hard onto one of the steps.

"Fucking Hell! How could this all go so wrong? Stunned, Dean stares at the empty street, at the spot where the Impala has disappeared with Ben, then sits down next to Lisa. He still wants to yell at her why she let Ben go and he wants to take her hand.

All of a sudden the man veiled in black pushes himself into his field of vision. He had almost forgotten him. "We have to go now, Dean!" - "Fuck you!"

Without him being able to do anything about it, Lisa, the driveway and the house dissolves. He waits for something to move, turn, light up, braces himself for another scenario to appear, but there is just - nothing. Everything remains dark, still and quiet.

And then a small light flares up from a candle. The shadow figure holds it in one hand. A second hand peels out off the robe and comes to lie on his shoulder. The gesture touches something deep inside of him, something that is old and essential and Dean's heart grows heavy in a familiar way that ... but it can't be. can it?

"Why are you torturing me like this?" He actually wants to shout it, but it comes out small and puny, as if he had given up already.

"It's up to you to figure it out, Dean."

"You sadistic fuck." He punches the hooded man with full force at the spot, where he suspects his head to be.

The figure emits a groan, but does not retreat. "I... I guess I deserve this." - "You have deserve much more ..." The spirit skillfully evades his next blow. "What? What the hell?" yells Dean, and his voice goes thunder. "What should I figure out?"

„Your life.“

_Any time tomorrow_  
_I will try to do what's right_  
_Making sense of all I can._

_You came to me anew ..._

*


	8. Onward - The Big Picture

*

Song: London Grammar - The Big Picture

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RbUMKenn5l8 ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RbUMKenn5l8)

Lyrics: https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/londongrammar/bigpicture.html

Chapter Eight

**Onward - The Big Picture**

_Love, what did you do to me?_

"My life?"

Suddenly, he and the ghost are back in the parking lot in front of the "Heart of Gold". Dean barely notices it in his furious rage, only the cold hitting him again.

"My shitty life has been one big Un-Hollywood production of fucking-higher powers - from start to finish."

Dean's breath is fast and hectic, white smoke signals in the cold night. "I know, that Sammy, Cas, and I were naive enough to think we could make our own rules, but... Yeah, you probably know how that worked out."

He looks up at the cold twinkling stars. "How can one man stand something like this – Heaven and Hell and everything in between?“ Dean gets down on his knees. Little stones pierce his skin through his jeans. „I fucking did as much as I could." His arms hang uselessly by his side. "I gave everything, everything I had, even my fucked up life. And still failed everyone."

He raises his hands towards the star-studded sky. "Nobody - nobody can live like this. It's not fair." His roar splits the silent night. "Do you hear me, Chuck? You cowardly fuck. It's not fair. I'm not doing this anymore."

_I'm made of many things,_

_but I'm not what you are made of_

"At last!" The ghost sounds like he's smiling and Dean is not sure, if he is more stunned or pissed by it. A second hand appears from the long folds of the robe and lies down on the hood. With one hand's movement the large hood falls back. The man underneath is really smiling, though tears are running down the rough stubble on his cheek.

_Only you could've hurt me in this perfect way..._

"I'm so sorry for raising you this way, Dean. Like a soldier. Like a warrior. I thought it had to be this way. Don't make the same mistake."

The next hate speech is already on Dean's tongue, but it falls apart in his mouth as he looks into the familiar face of his Dad.

"It's time, son." The figure of his father begins to shine under the fabric. When John throws off the robe, the brightness is almost unbearable, his whole body seems to glow from within.

"I hope you make the right decision, Dean - the right decision for yourself." His father's gaze lies warm on him, then the warmth transforms into a dancing ball of light and John Winchester shoots up into the starry night sky.

_I might be blind, but you've told me the difference_

_Between mistakes and what you just meant for me_

_Don't say you ever loved me_

_Don't say you ever cared_

_My darkest friend_

The echo of the light still burns in Dean's eyes as he slowly lowers his gaze from the sky. He stands alone in the parking lot. In front of him is the Impala. And it's Christmas Eve. He bites his lip until he tastes blood. And salty water. "As if I would still believe in heaven." But he can't quite push back the smile, the hope that somewhere there might be something better than this.

_But I swear that these scars are fine_

That night he does not dream. Nor in the months to come and slowly the intense pictures disappear in the daily grind.

**~ * ~**

Summer slowly creeps up the Flathead National Forest to Whitefish. The mosquitoes are dancing provocatively in the late afternoon sun, when Dean suddenly is struck by lightning.

He holds on to the sink, his hands cling to the enamel and part of his fingers are in the much too hot water, but the pain in his head is stronger. Finally, he falls to his knees, his hands pressed against his head.

It looks like a flickering film: a dirt road in the evening sun. Rusty windmill. Grey weathered, collapsed barn. Crossing of two dirt roads.

As the pain slowly ebbs away with the images, he knows exactly where to go.

~ * ~

**Lebanon, Kansas - July 04, 2024**

The journey took 22 hours with three rest stops. Go, go, go. At midnight he had to pull over near the Yellowstone National Park, after he had almost driven into a wildly honking truck in a microsleep.

It is hot through Wyoming, even hotter along the border to Colorado. Finally, shortly before sunset, he crosses the state line to Nebraska and everything turns way to familiar. The bunker is only 3 miles away from here.

It's like he scratched a barely healed wound open again. Fleetingly, he ponders to pay the bunker a visit, but then the dream images from half a year ago flood his mind and no, he does not need to see Sammy's abandonded, dusty laptop and the only place he has called home besides the Impala. No, thanks. He very well knows without it, what he has lost.

He easily remembers the way to the crossroad, always has been good with everything related to sense of direction. Between the ripe cornfields Dean stops and turns the key in the ignition. The engine dies and suddenly everything around him is quiet. Dean rests his chin on the steering wheel and gazes over the golden tips of the wheat field in front of him.

After a few minutes a low rumbling breaks the silence, growing quickly louder and louder. Something is approaching rapidly on the horizon. It is fast like a car, faster even, but much smaller. The cloud of dust it is pulling behind it is impressive, though the silhouette narrower. A black dot that is swiftly approaching. Closer and closer.

_And break me on this lonely road_

Dean yanks out the key and gets out of the car. On the passenger seat, there is a backpack, in it his most important basic equipment. Instinctvely, he had stowed away everything important in it within half an hour, years of practice.

He looks over to the rapidly growing spot and knows with unshakable certainty, that this is it. This is, what he has been waiting for - whatever it is, that is shooting towards him on the horizon.

_And now, you have no weapons_

Dean opens the trunk and lets his eyes slide over the armament. He hadn't used his old tools since he had settled in Rufus' cabin. Tenderly, he strokes Sam's old favourite machete, the marred handle, the nicks in the blade. Finally he takes the machete, Dad's old rosary and Castiel's Angel Blade and puts all three on top of his clothes, next to Sam's flannel shirt, then he closes the backpack.

He puts a hand to shield himself from the setting sun, looks in the direction from which the growing silhouette is approaching and finally recognizes the vehicle: a motorcycle. The rider's helmet flashes briefly in the sun.

The last 400 meters. Male! Dean is sure.

The man races straight towards him, only bringing the motorcycle to a halt at the last second, the back wheel breaks out and now the guy is facing him. Although Dean does not know who is hiding under the helmet, he stays his ground and suppresses the impulse to jump out of the way. An inexplicable trust guides his decision.

The guy gets off and jacks up the bike. They are about the same size, of similar stature, even though the dented motorcycle jacket makes the biker look wider.

Dean inspects the motorcycle. It is a black and red single seat cross machine, sleek and well suited for dirt roads of this type or off-road riding. In front of Dean, the man releases the fastener on his chin and Dean holds his breath, but the guy does not take off the helmet, just holds out his outstretched hand.

Thoughtfully, Dean cradles the key to the Impala in his hand. Then he nods at the man, letting the bunch of keys fly through the air in a perfect arc. The man skilfully catches it with one hand and throws the key for the motorcycle to him, then turns away from Dean, slips out of the black leather jacket, takes off the helmet and hangs it over the handlebars.

Dean only sees him from behind: light brown hair, shortly cut, the base of an angular chin with brown stubble that shimmers slightly red in the sun. Without looking in Dean's direction, the man gets into the Impala, becomes a shadow behind the steering wheel in the glistening evening sun.

He walks over, puts one hand on the roof above the passenger door. How do you say goodbye to something that is not alive, that cannot answer? He strokes over the paint, leaving black streaks in the dirt road dust.

He looks through the back window once more at the little plastic soldier in the ashtray, who seems to have been standing guard there for years with his gun in his hand, and his heart gets so tight, so tight until it can't go on any longer and he gives up.

And with the giving up he is suddenly filled with a vastness that is as endless as the cornfields and the wide evening sky over Kansas.

_My only hope is to let life stretch out before me_

The Impala's engine comes to life under his fingertips, beats like a heart and makes the bodywork vibrate. His hand goes over the varnish one last time, then he hits the roof once gently and slowly the Impala rolls away.

Reluctantly Dean takes the motorcycle jacket from the seat and throws it over. It is comfortably warm and fits around his shoulders like a glove. The smell of leather and sweat is weird, but not unpleasant.

The Impala is just a black cloud of dust on the golden horizon between the cornfields now.

Dean straddles the bike, latches the helmet and puts the key in the ignition. He doesn't need to think, which of the three other routes he is going to take.

_Only now do I see the big picture!_

Endings are hard.

Any chapped-ass monkey with a keyboard can poop out a beginning,

but endings are impossible.

You try to tie up every loose end, but you never can.

The fans are always gonna bitch.

There's always gonna be holes.

And since it's the ending, it's all supposed to add up to something.

I'm telling you, they're a raging pain in the ass.

_Chuck – Swan Song_

~ * ~

* * *

**Afterword**

  
An open ending ...  
  
Probably, some of you will curse me now for this (or Jensen ;-)  
  
I would be really interested to know what you think –   
especially now with supernatural really drawing to an end:   
What does Dean do after getting on the bike?   
Where does he go to?  
What is he going to do?  
  
There is no right or wrong here.  
I would be very happy if you feel like sharing your interpretations ;-)  
Also about your take on the last scene of supernatural in general.  
  
Liebe Grüße, Der_Katze

Jensen is to blame ;-) Jensen dreams the end of Supernatural

[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=05eDUdV1avA ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=05eDUdV1avA)

Jensen shares his dream at TorCon

[ https://screenrant.com/supernatural-final-scene-jensen-ackles-dean-dream/ ](https://screenrant.com/supernatural-final-scene-jensen-ackles-dean-dream/)

[ https://spnhunters.com/2017/08/04/jensen-ackles-shares-his-supernatural-ending-dream-but-how-could-it-actually-end/ ](https://spnhunters.com/2017/08/04/jensen-ackles-shares-his-supernatural-ending-dream-but-how-could-it-actually-end/)

"I can see it right now. It’s just one scene. Think: Middle America, Big Sky country. It’s just wheat fields as far as the eye can see, and there’s an intersection, a crossroads, oddly enough. I drive up in the Impala, and I park in the middle of the intersection.

There’s nobody for miles. I get out of the car and I look in the distance — and it’s like Lawrence of Arabia when Omar Sharif was running up with the camel — I just see this thing coming in the distance, and it gets closer and closer and closer and closer. It’s a guy on a motorbike.

And we never really see his face. He’s got a helmet on. But he walks up and I give him a nod, and I take a walk around the Impala very slowly and I walk back over to him and I hand the keys to him. And he takes off his helmet — we don’t see who it is — he hands the helmet to me and hands me the keys to the bike.

From his back, he gets in the car and I watch the Impala drive off. And then I turn and I look at the bike that’s got one seat. And I put the helmet on, start the bike, [give] one last look to the Impala, it’s now gone, and I take off. Because I don’t need the extra seat anymore.

And I even have the soundtrack in my head. There were no words spoken. I had this swelling score. It was like some Robert Zemeckis film."

[ https://interessante-fakten.de/2574/Mitte-der-USA.html ](https://interessante-fakten.de/2574/Mitte-der-USA.html)

Geographic center of the USA: Lebanon, Kansas ;-)

[ https://www.instagram.com/p/Bqhc5_ZBTtM ](https://www.instagram.com/p/Bqhc5_ZBTtM)

Supernatural set photo. It was nice to walk through a Season 14 set in Vancouver, in which I found this great sign.

*


End file.
